Running for My Life
by Elfpen
Summary: Halt O'Carrick, crown Prince of Clonmel, is running for his life. Away from home, away from family. But where is he going? Did he really have a life to run for in the first place? Sometimes to find something, you have to lose everything first.
1. Run

**Warning! Spoilers for book 8!**

Title: Running for my Life  
Author: Elfpen

Summary: Halt O'Carrick, Prince of Clonmel and rightful heir to the throne is running for his life. Tradition wants him crowned. His parents want him obedient. His brother wants him dead. He follows his instincts – he runs for his life. But to where? Did he really have a life to run for in the first place? Sometimes to find something, you have to lose everything first.

Author's Note: Started writing this after I read 'Kings of Clonmel'. Gah, I know I should be updating my other stories, but I couldn't help it! The O'Carrick family drama bug bit me! This first chapter will be a quick introduction to Halt's predicament, and the next chapter will be a few flashbacks to previous years. After that, Halt will be headed off to Araluen.

Enjoy!

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**Chapter 1**

**Prologue: Run**

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His cheeks were whipped pink from the wind. He couldn't help his heavy breathing as he dashed through the dense forest, not bothering with time-consuming stealth or subtlety. This was a blind, head-long run with the anxiety and frustration of years pent up behind it to propel his slight frame forward. A large bush-growth smacked against him painfully as he flew past, but he ignored it. If there were tears running out of his eyes, he didn't notice them. He was preoccupied with one thought – running. He had to - he _had _to. He should have run long ago, before it could have come to this. He should have left them months – no, _years _ago, and he wouldn't have had to gone through what he'd suffered the past years.

After a long while, after he felt he'd put enough distance between himself and his former home, he slowed to a stop and collapsed down by a tall oak, his lungs heaving for air. He pulled his knees up and rested his head against them, wrapping his arms about his legs as he tried to sort through his present predicament.

He didn't know exactly where he was heading or where he should be going, but he did know one thing for certain: There wasn't a chance on the planet that he was ever going back to Clonmel. At least, not for himself. He had a promise to keep, and keep it he would – but he would never return to the way things had been.

But then, there was that question of the future: Where? Where was he going? What was he going to do? He knew very well what he was running _from, _but what, exactly, was he running _to?_ He had no plan, no clear goal in mind. All he had were the clothes on his back, a three-day supply of rations, his instincts, and his life.

Then again, was it really a life in the first place?

A distant ruckus drove the thoughts out of his mind. Vaguely, he could hear human voices coming towards him. His brother's was among them. Quickly, he rose, hoisted his small pack up on his shoulders, and ran. For what, he didn't know, but he would find out eventually. He had to.


	2. In the Midst of a Storm

Author's Note:

Okay, so after getting practically NO hits on the first chapter, we'll see how this next installment goes.

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**Chapter 2**

**In the Midst of a Storm**

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_One and a half years ago..._

They were arguing again. They argued all the time, but tonight's verbal spar had grown to become more heated and violent than usual. It was late and dark, but there was a dot of light shining from a windowsill set high among the towers of Dun Kilty. Raised voices drifted down the hallways - one high and shrill, one low and baritone. Despite the heavy wooden door blocking off the room from the rest of the castle, the argument could be heard for a considerable distance either way down the hall. It was storming outside, but the loud claps of thunder and flashes of lightning only acted to accentuate their argument. The guards and young maidservants went about their late night chores normally, but upon closer inspection, one might notice the quickened step and nervous looks that passed between fellow servants as they scuttled past the King and Queen's living quarters.

A few rooms down the hall, behind a slightly less ornate wooden door, a young, dark-haired teen, half-buried beneath the rich coverings of his four-poster bed, was clamping his pillow over his ears with an iron grip. He tried to remember the last time that he had been able to fall asleep without their yelling coming down the hall. He couldn't. The way he was, he could only pick out a few clear words from their 'discussion', but still had the constant angry buzz of their voices filling his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to find one thought that might aid him in his quest for sleep. He'd been forcing himself to sleep like this for years so that he might rest despite the raised voices down the hall, but there was something about this particular fight, something in their voices, that set his teeth on edge and made _him _want to scream.

A particularly loud clap of thunder shook the shudders in his window, and for a split second, the ambient sound, screaming, thundering and rattling all at once, rose to an ear-splitting volume. With an angry grunt, he threw the pillow off his head and slammed it back down on the bed. A frustrated sigh, and he rose from his place on the mattress, hair a mess and night clothes hanging askew on his slight frame. He went over to the window and pushed open the shudders. His mother could admonish him later for opening the window during a storm. She was a bit preoccupied at the moment. He looked longingly out the window, surveying the cozy, albeit wet, quiet village that lay beneath him with envy. How he longed for peace and quiet. A distant lightning strike illuminated his room for a moment, flashing across his features to reveal the deep, dark circles under his eyes, testifying to the accumulated sleep deprivation that he suffered without complaint.

A few rain droplets flicked coolly against his skin through the window, but for the most part, no water spilled in from the outside. Cold, wet air breezed through, and he breathed it in readily, craving it over the stuffy inside air of the castle. He sat down on the window seat and pulled his bare feet up onto the plush velvet cushion, tucking his knees up under his chin. He tried to zone out the still-yelling voices, and instead focused on the mesmerizing daze of the falling rain, tracking the drops as they fell past his window and onto the parapets below. He loved thunderstorms. He'd never met another soul that shared his love for the intense thunder and torrential rain, but from within the confines of his room, he found the sound of them calming. The steady consistency of the rain mixed with the unpredictable, crashing flair of the lightning and thunder gave him a strange feeling – a mix of awe and contentment. But tonight, that contentment was infringed upon by the loud, edgy voices. With a sigh, he leaned into his knees and wondered when the yelling would stop. It was well past midnight, and they were still having at each other over who knew what. He only wished for sleep, but apparently, that was too much to ask for.

Unexpectedly, a timid voice sounded from the other end of the room.

"Halt?"

He turned towards the sound, and though he could not see the small door in the corner of his room, he knew who it would be.

"Caitlyn, what are you doing up?" He asked, not unkindly.

A shuffling noise, and a young girl, a few years younger than he was, came into the moonlight hugging a soft pillow to her chest. Her hair was golden brown, with curls tossed wild from attempted sleep.

"I could be asking you the same thing." She said dryly, but the smile on her face betrayed her.

Halt gave a half-hearted smile in return and patted the seat behind him. She clambered up beside him on the window seat, wrapped her nightdress carefully beneath her, and leant against her brother. He showed no qualms about it, and moved to give her room on the small cushioned bench before wrapping an arm around her. She propped her head up on her pillow, and he propped his on her shoulder. Brother and sister spent a long while simply staring out into the streets below, flowing with fresh rainwater, tossed in small saves by the wind.

After a while,

"Do you think mum and dad will ever stop?" Caitlyn peered up around at her brother.

"I hope so. I think Professor Tierney might notice if I start falling asleep during economics class. Again."

Caitlyn snorted derisively. "I don't suppose he'd take this excuse?" She gestured, indicating their parent's room down the hall.

"Probably not. At least, not openly. Blaming the King and Queen for their son's actions wouldn't exactly be a wise career move, I'd think."

"No, I suppose not." She admitted. She leaned back against Halt, and he hugged her closer. Out of everyone he'd ever known, Caitlyn was, all things considered, his only friend. Add to that the fact that she was his little sister, and the friendship they shared could only be described as close. He had never been an openly affectionate boy, but he made an exception for his sister.

"I suppose Ferris will be sound asleep by now. I don't see how he sleeps through their racket." Caitlyn said.

Halt rolled his eyes. "Probably. Sleeps as soundly as a drunken boar." He said. Ferris and Halt were twins – identical twins, to be exact – but they were as different as different can describe. Along with a myriad of personality opposites, Halt slept lighter than a cat, whereas Ferris slept like an unmoving, snoring lump resembling a rock – if rocks could sleep, at any rate. Sometimes, Halt couldn't help but wonder if Caitlyn should have been his twin, not Ferris.

He and his sister sat that way for what could have been hours, only making occasional comments to each other. After a while, the voices finally seemed to die down.

"We should be getting back to bed." Halt said quietly, whispering in the now-quiet room. His sister sighed. She liked her brother's company, but they barely ever got to spend time together talking like this. Halt was always away in classes, being 'prepped' for his 'destiny' – or so their father called it. Halt was the elder of his brother by seven minutes, and those seven minutes granted him the crown of Clonmel. He was to be king one day, and with that day in mind, was put through a rigorous, albeit incredibly boring, lineup of dry classes considered to be essential to kingship. Because of his constantly busy schedule, Caitlyn rarely saw head or hide of her brother except on a few occasions in the evening, at mealtimes, and sometimes on an afternoon respite in the dense woods at the outskirts of the village.

"Can't I stay here with you?" She asked, turning pleading eyes around at her brother.

"Caitlyn, you _know _how mother feels about that. You're getting to old to be afraid of thunderstorms."

She sighed. "Please? I never get to see you, Halt. Besides, my room is so drafty that it's bloody freezing in there. I'll get frostbite from the wind alone."

Halt snorted. He wouldn't contest the point – Dun Kilty was, indeed, prone to untraceable drafts and chill temperatures during the autumn and winter. But, despite this, he knew that their mother thought it was unspeakably un-princesses like for Caitlyn to go cowering to her brother in the thick of a mere thunderstorm. Halt regarded her. He knew, of course, that Caitlyn wasn't really _that _afraid of the thunder or lightning, but the look on her face was so pitiful, he knew he was fighting a losing battle. He sighed.

"Fine. But we're not staying up until dawn talking. I need sleep." Halt rose from the window seat and pulled the shudders closed, wordlessly heading back around to his bed.

Caitlyn smiled, and launched her thin body up onto his huge bed, bouncing a bit before receiving one of her brother's withering glares. She settled down and pulled the covers around her. On the other side, Halt lay flat on his back and sighed as he got comfortable. He'd just closed his eyes when he heard the sheets shuffling, and suddenly, two small arms were wrapped about him as if he was a giant teddy bear. Startled, he froze in an awkward pose with both arms held out as his sister leeched herself onto him, ignoring his discomfort and making use of his shoulder as a pillow. After she stilled, Halt cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Comfortable?" He asked sarcastically.

She nodded in all seriousness. "Yes, thank you. Goodnight, Halt." Her tone was so matter-of-fact that it left no room for one of his normal witty retorts. Halt shook his head and sighed, but a small smiled touched his lips in spite of himself. He leant back against his pillows.

"Just go to sleep, you little rug-rat." Halt ruffled her hair fondly and closed his eyes. He would face his parent's wrath and incessant arguing in the morning. For now, he would simply enjoy the peaceful, quiet sleep that awaited him.

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A/N: Just a quick glimpse into my interpretation of Caitlyn and her relationship with Halt. This will become a bigger point later on in the story.


	3. Sibling Rivalry

Author's Note: This chapter was originally planned to be longer than this, but it is already rather long as it is, so I chopped the end off and will post it with the next chapter. It actually works out nicely, because that bit fits in with the next chapter more nicely anyway. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 3**

**Sibling Rivalry**

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"Gone cowering away to big brother again, did you?" He taunted. Caitlyn sleepily lifted her head from her pillow, frizzed curls falling in awkward positions around her face.

"Halt…?" She tried to focus on the dark-haired figure above her. Once she caught sight of his eyes, she groaned and tossed a pillow up at him.

"Oh, go away, Ferris."

"Mum won't be very happy when she hears about this."

"She _won't _hear about it, if you know what's good for you. Where is Halt, anyway?"

"Am I my brother's keeper? He's probably off skulking in the woods, as usual. And unless you get your rear up off that bed and help me clean up the library before dad wakes up, mum will most _certainly _hear about this."

"What?" Caitlyn sat up. "Why does the library need cleaning? Isn't that Molly's job?" She referred to the young maid who usually cleaned the royal family's private chambers – including the library.

"Well… Something happened."

"What?"

"…Last night."

"What did you _do?"_ She glared at him.

Predictably, he avoided eye contact. "Does it matter? Caitlyn, just… Help me, please."

"No. This is your problem." She crossed her arms. "You deal with it and bear the consequences. I had nothing to do with… Whatever you did." She wasn't even sure she _wanted _to know.

"Well," he tried to sound threatening, but the apprehension in his eyes belied the tone of voice. "Either you help me, or I tell mother what an immature little brat you are, who _obviously _needs to be separated from dear old big brother so she can have some time alone to _grow up." _He sneered at her.

Her eyes burned at him like embers, but she couldn't say anything. Despite the fact that he was one of the most weak-willed people she'd ever known, Ferris had a way with manipulation, and was more than willing to use underhand tactics to get what he wanted.

"She wouldn't listen to you." She said.

"Oh, yes she would. She definitely wouldn't listen to _you_."

"She'd listen to Halt!"

"Maybe. If he chose to show up. Oh, and then there's the matter of him actually _talking. _I think mum and dad are under the impression that their son is a mute.

"Well better a mute than a snake!" She retorted back.

"A snake, is it? Well a snake is the only brother you'd have after I tell mum what a bad influence the mute is having on you."

"Bad influence? Oh, I think you're looking at the wrong twin, _brother – _go look in the mirror sometime."

"Funny, that would look just like Halt, wouldn't it?"

"You're _not_ just alike, you know."

"Yes, actually, I do." Ferris eyes burned. "The difference between us is that Halt doesn't have the nerve or the guts to sit on the throne of Clonmel, whereas _I_-"

"No." Caitlyn cut in fiercely, "the difference between you and Halt is that right now, Halt would be looking me in the eye, whereas _you _can't even bring yourself to meet my gaze."

There was a long pause, in which Ferris reeled to regain his ground in the argument, and Caitlyn glared daggers at her brother.

"Your choices are to either help me," Ferris sounded out clearly, still not looking directly at Caitlyn, "Or get a day-long lecture from mum and forfeit any chance of seeing Halt again for another week and a half. Choose."

She continued to glare. "I'll help you. But don't even think it's as a favor – if anything, it's for Halt." She rose. "Now come on, before father wakes up."

_Curse my vile snake of a brother, _she thought venomously. _At least he'll never sit on the throne. _

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Later that afternoon, she was scribbling furiously away in her diary when her brother came up took it from her in the middle of her writing.

"Ferris!" She grabbed for it, "Give me that back, or I swear I'll-" She stopped when she looked at him.

"Caitlyn, what on earth happened to your hands?" Halt was asking, taking one of her blackened, bandaged hands in his.

She sighed, lamenting (not for the first time) the fact that her brothers were identical. For however different they were in personality, the likeness of appearance between Halt and Ferris made them hard to differentiate at a quick glance.

"Ferris happened." She told him sourly. "Ferris and all his irresponsible shenanigans. Can I have my book back, please?"

Halt wordlessly handed it back, still looking concerned at her hands. "Sorry," He said, "I saw your hands, and…"

"It's alright, Halt. Ferris tore up the library last night,"

"Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I didn't ask."

"Probably a wise decision."

"That was my thought. He threatened me into helping him clean it up before dad could find out, and well…" She help up her hands, covered in ink, papercuts, and scrapes. "Turns out libraries are more dangerous than they look. Especially when there are broken ink bottles and loose files strewn everywhere."

Halt winced. "What on earth did he threaten you with?"

She sighed, and had to avert her eyes. "He said he'd tell mum that you were being a bad influence on me, and that he'd have us separated."

"What? That's ridiculous!"

"It is. But you know mum wouldn't ever consider our word over his."

Halt drew breath to reply, but then let it out in a heavy sigh. Unfortunately, she was right. Ferris was his parent's favorite son – favorite child, really, and his mother and father were oblivious to his darker side. As far as they were concerned, Ferris was a perfectly friendly, cheerful, wonderful angel. In all truth, their assessment of him was, in fact, true – most of the time. Then there were the threats, manipulation, underhanded politics and schemes, the ones that Halt's parents refused to see. To them, Ferris was every good thing that Halt failed to be: Friendly, suave, regal, studious, obedient. Halt, on the other hand, was reserved, private, analytical, and just a touch rebellious. They would be more than willing to accept and act on Ferris' belief that Halt was being a bad influence on his sister.

If only they knew.

But for however distant Halt seemed to be, the last thing he ever wanted was to deepen the already deep wounds in his family out of selfish ambition. There was a gulf of separation between his parents, and a sometimes even bigger gulf between them and their children. The link that crossed that gulf, for however weak it was, was Ferris. In him, his parents saw at least a tiny bit of joy that kept them from the brink of separation and ruin. Halt knew that to uncover Ferris' rotten side was to deal a blow to his family's roots. It may be gratifying for a moment to see his loathsome brother fall from his throne of glory, but in the long run, he knew it would spell disaster for not only him, but his entire family. And if the O'Carrick family fell, Clonmel fell with it.

He hated being royalty. He hated more than anything else. And if being royalty wasn't bad enough, he'd ended up as the elder twin by seven minutes. The most cursed seven minutes of his life, Halt thought. Not only was he royalty; he was the crown prince, the future king of Clonmel, the hope of the entire country, and the bane of his jealous brother's existence.

Whoever decided that the rule of 'first-born-son-wins-the-crown' should be adhered to as unbreakable law, Halt thought, should be shot. Multiple times. In fact, even if the man was already dead, Halt wouldn't very much mind finding his grave, digging him up, and skewering him with a javelin himself. Seven minutes should not decide a man's fate, especially when it was a fate he dreaded more than anything else.

Halt knew that Ferris hated the idea just as much as he did – but for totally different reasons. Halt hated it because he _didn't _want to be king. Ferris hated it because he _did. _It was entirely backwards, really, and completely stupid that a man who quite adamantly did not want to be king was forced into wearing the crown when there was another man who wanted nothing more than to wear it in his stead. On occasion, Halt entertained the thought that _he_ actually been the younger twin, and that Ferris was the first born. But, being identical, the two were mixed up as infants and had since grown up in each other's rightful places. Actually, Halt had tried to make this case to his parents once before, in a desperate attempt to avoid the crown, but could not find sufficient evidence to sway his father's mind. Halt fought back a grimace at the thought. He'd exhausted more or less every method of crown-escape that he could come up with in his sixteen years of life, but hadn't stopped looking for ideas yet – even if they were a bit far-fetched.

"Halt?" Caitlyn broke into his thoughts. "You alright?"

"Hmm?" He shook himself and looked over at his sister.

"You looked kind of… Far off there, for a minute."

"Oh. Sorry, I was thinking."

She smirked. "I could tell." She looked at him fondly for a minute. She would never understand what exactly went on inside that head of his, but she respected him for it more than anything else.

"Well," He said after a moment, "I managed to get out of political theory class for the day. I was thinking of going up to Archer's Point… If you'd like to come along." He shrugged.

She smiled. "I'd love to."

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Archer's Point was a good kilometer and a half away from the walls of Dun Kilty, though the imposing fortress could easily be seen from the coastal outcropping. In all actuality, the small jut of rock and soil had no name or boundaries. It was not marked on any of the maps in Clonmel, but Halt and Caitlyn knew the paths in and around the isolated little clearing by heart.

It looked peaceful at a glance. The undergrowth and scraggled trees that dominated the woods leading up to the seaside cliffs gave way to a small clearing, with one large, old oak giving generous shade to the grassy outcrop. The oasis-like break in the dark line of forest was what had initially led Halt to find it, years ago.

Halt had discovered it as a young boy, and had made it his personal retreat from castle life since then. When Caitlyn was old enough to be allowed off castle grounds alone, she'd followed her brother there one day and grew to love it just as much as he did. To date, they were the only ones in the Castle who knew of the place and referred to it as 'Archer's Point'.

They'd come to call it 'Archer's Point' after they found the remains of an ancient bow and a few arrows in the small cave that rested just under the top of the bluff. So long as one was sure-footed and not afraid of heights, the cave was in easy access. The small cavern could not be seen from the top, but a hidden ledge created a path into the opening. It was the designated 'hideout' of the area, and signs of frequent use were visible within; half-melted candles, a small pile of books, notebooks, and pencils, along with two oiled wool blankets folded carefully in one corner in reserve for the chilly autumn evenings and cold winter days. The roots of the great oak above riddled the ceiling in squiggled patterns, emerging and disappearing in the roof soil like a giant inverted sea serpent. Many things were hung from these convenient lodging places, including some small lanterns, a few of Caitlyn's drawings (she was a talented pencil artist) and a small cloth bag containing knick-knacks and toys; some remainders from Halt's childhood, some more recent snippets of memories.

The two siblings easily found their way into the cave, the fresh sea air rushing up on their faces as they stood at the entrance. Both were forced to crouch as they entered. The cave was not tall enough to stand up in, though there was plenty of room to sit upright once they were inside.

"Peace and quiet, at long last." Halt said, half in relish, half mocking the noisy life within Dun Kilty. He closed his eyes and leaned back against a sloped wall, breathing in the cool air and listening to the calming, rhythmic waves of the ocean crashing against the craggy rocks below.

Caitlyn smiled. "Indeed. It' s been a while." She looked about herself for a moment, before selecting an aged leather-bound book and a pencil. She opened it to somewhere the middle and began sketching.

Halt watched her through a cracked eyelid. He'd always found her knack for art fascinating. He could draw maps and tactical plans well enough, but the amount of realism that Caitlyn could capture with a pencil was pure magic, as far as he was concerned.

"What are you drawing?" He asked curiously.

She kept her eyes riveted to her new work-in-progress. "You."

He sat up. "What? Why?" He didn't know whether to be flattered or offended.

"Sit back the way you were." She scolded him. "You were perfectly fine there, and now you're all disgruntled again." She grumbled, smudging her eraser against the paper before frowning up at him.

He was tempted to refuse, but saw no point in it, so leaned back obediently, resting at ease as he had been before. A thought struck him. "I don't look _that _'disgruntled', do I?"

"Only when you've been arguing with Ferris." She said without looking up.

He thought about this for a moment. "You know about that?"

"I suspected. Now I know." She looked up at him. "What was it about this time?"

Halt sighed. "What else? All he wanted to do was tell me what a horrid king I'll make. All I wanted to tell him is how much I don't want to be king in the first place."

"And?"

"And he didn't listen to me, as usual. Thinks I really do want to be king. Thinks I'm lying, scheming, taunting and deceiving." Halt told her. It was Ferris' typical reaction to arguments of the type.

"You know, usually the only ones who suspect anyone of lying, scheming, taunting and deceiving are the liars, schemers, taunters and deceivers." Caitlyn said sagely.

Halt nodded. "Indeed. It fits his personality, I suppose. But…" Halt paused, his brow furrowing into pensive lines. Caitlyn looked up from her work, attentive to what he might say.

"But…?" She prodded.

Halt gathered his thoughts. "There was something… Else. Something different this time. In his eyes." Halt said, and looked to his sister. "I'm not sure what it is. I noticed a few weeks ago, but this time… It seems more real."

"I'm not sure what you mean." Caitlyn said.

"He's just been so… Fierce about the arguments." Halt said eventually. "Violent. He always has been, I guess, but he never really _looked _it, in his eyes." Halt squinted slightly, remembering the icy look in his brother's eyes. "But now he does. He looks… Cold. Bitter. Much more so than usual." Halt finished. He didn't want to say it out loud, but he was a bit concerned about the change. He wasn't sure what it meant.

Caitlyn looked at him with worried eyes. She'd noticed the change too, every so often. Ferris spoke more sharply when addressed by Halt, and whenever Caitlyn mentioned their brother out of his presence, Ferris got a certain glint in his eye that Caitlyn could associate with anything except hatred. Ferris had never liked Halt, though. Maybe she hadn't realized the extent of that dislike until now.

"Well," She said at length, "I doubt you can do anything to change it. Neither of us will ever understand him completely. Best just leave it be, I suppose." It was a lame solution to the situation, but it was the best she could come up with.

Halt nodded, looking out to the sea. His face was tight with thought and worry. His sister went back to her sketching, but stopped and sighed in frustration. The rough sketch that she had nestled in her lap was infinitely more peaceful than the young man she saw before her now. It was hard to believe it was the same person. Where Halt's charcoal features showed nothing but peace and rest, the live version was wrought tight with worry and anxiety. She frowned, glancing around. This place wasn't meant for worrying. This was the place of refuge, the place where the rest of the world could be forgotten if only for a few moments. It was a place of rest. She looked back up at Halt, and shot out her leg so her boot connected solidly with his calf.

He looked up, a question in his eyes.

"Lean back, Halt. You're ruining the picture." She smirked at him ruefully.

Halt let out a sigh and followed her orders in a begrudging way, but as he tilted his head back and let his eyes drift closed, Caitlyn could have sworn that he was smiling.


	4. Aconitum Ferox

A/N: I am SO sorry it took me so stinking long to get this chapter up. I have had horrible writer's block these past few weeks and was rather depressed by the whole thing, so I sat down on Wednesday and very deliberately brainstormed on this story in particular. I'll probably update more often, but it may be on this story only. The way things are going, with the plans I have laid, this story is looking like it might end up qualifying for the 'epic' length classification by the time I'm done with it. Anyway. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 4**

**Aconitum Ferox**

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That evening at dinner, Halt, Ferris and Caitlyn all filed in to the expansive dining hall quietly. Ferris and Caitlyn, who had been bickering on the way to dinner, gave a few last hissed sallies before quieting as they approached their parents. Halt had been silent during the entire trek to the dining hall, and he stayed that way as they entered the room.

It was a long room, stone, as most of the castle was, with an antique wooden dining table standing as a massive centerpiece to the room. Rich tapestries hung from the walls. Some were large and ran from ceiling to floor, while others were the size of a small window. Regardless of size, all were set in orderly and impressive rows, commanding a sense of luxury and presence. The table itself was accented by a long red-velvet runner, richly embroidered, which was currently covered in thick candles and bowls of fresh fruit.

The table and the massive dining chairs situated around it were overly embellished, as the whole room tended to be, and had intricate designs and pictures carved into them on all sides. Red fabric cushions added to the rich quality of the chairs.

All three children took their respective seats at the table. Their father was at his place at the head, with his wife at his left side. Halt took his assigned seat at his father's right without greeting, his face expressionless and his eyes not rising to look at his parents. Ferris took his seat beside his mother, though he glared at Halt as he did so. Halt's seat at the table was only another reminder of his higher status. Ferris only hated him more for the fact.

Caitlyn could have chosen to sit on either side of the table, next to either of her brothers, but it had been years ago when she'd first favored the seat next to Halt as her designated chair. She took that seat, glancing at her parents as she did so.

Farlon, eyes of steel, jaw of stone, and a beard pointier than a spear, looked overall rather uninterested as his children seated themselves. His beard and hair were immaculately trimmed, though both were beginning to show a fair share of grey. The crown of Clonmel, no more than a glorified leather headband, had seemed to have imprinted a permanent single wave into his otherwise smooth hair. Next to him, his queen Rianna sat poised and composed, as her breed were trained to. She'd tried to hammer in such manners to her daughter, but Caitlyn still often got away with slouching with her elbows on the table when her mother wasn't looking. Like Caitlyn and to some extent Halt and Ferris, Rianna had volumous curly hair, though it was beginning to grow straight as grey appeared at her roots. Nevertheless, she sat with trained confidence and a precise kind of beauty, though that beauty didn't quite reach past her cheeks into her dark eyes. If one were to look closely, the King and Queen did not acknowledge either's presence, and their chairs were scooted as far apart as the table would allow.

Nothing was said as the royal family sat down to their meal, or as the servants hurried in with trays, pitchers, goblets and silver. Beyond the quiet 'thank you' that a gracious Caitlyn had given to a timid young serving maid (a newcomer to the castle staff) not a single syllable was spoken as they cut into their dinner. Venison topped by sautéed mushrooms with seasoned potatoes, washed down with a fine selection from the King's private wine cellars. It would seem like a feast to any normal person, but it was actually a rather every day dinner in the royal palace.

The meal was nearly half way through before Farlon broke the silence.

"I've been to the library today." He said in his 'casual' voice. (which sounded more like a formal announcing voice than a talking-to-the-family voice) As he spoke, Caitlyn stopped forking her mushrooms and glared darkly at Ferris across the table, the action block from her parents' view by Halt's arm, which was reaching over to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. As the cover retreated back to where Halt stashed away the snack in his pocket, Caitlyn finished her glaring and returned to eating, as though nothing had transpired.

"And how was the library, father? Just as dusty and empty as the last time you visited two years ago?" Caitlyn said in a dry voice, gathering a mouthful of mushrooms on her fork. She had her very innocent gaze trained studiously on her plate as Farlon glared daggers at his daughter. Since she was not endowed with any kind of royal birthright such as the crown or stewarding duties, her father inspired no fear in her. It was common knowledge that the King of Clonmel was not the most avid reader of the last century. Actually, he was quite averse to literature – a fact that Caitlyn (a bookworm) couldn't help but poke fun at occasionally.

"Actually, no, it wasn't." Farlon said evenly, not taking his eyes off of Caitlyn. Caitlyn glanced, as casually but as meaningfully as possible, at Ferris. _What have you done now, scumbag? _Her gaze said. "In fact," Farlon continued, oblivious to the interchange, "I've found my favored volume on physiological chemistry to be missing." He announced.

There was a short pause, before Ferris swallowed his mouthful of diluted wine and spoke.

"Did you check with Annir, to see if he is using it in his studies?" Ferris asked, feigning concern. Annir was the resident master healer at Dun Kilty.

"No. I will see to it that I do that in the morning. A good thought, Ferris." Farlon said. Ferris nodded his head in appreciation of the praise. Caitlyn glared arrows through her brother's skull with well-practiced subtlety.

Halt picked at his food and seemed to ignore the conversation and the world at large, though Caitlyn knew that he was not only listening, but that he would be observing every twitch of body language that transpired through the course of the evening. Caitlyn also watched her father for another further comment about the library or any other unpleasant line creasing his forehead, but none came. The missing book on physiological chemistry had been his only concern for his neglected library.

Caitlyn inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. One miss-placed book on such a dry, unpopular subject was not something she was worried about. Her father probably wasn't even upset that he'd lost that book in particular – just that he'd lost a valuable material. At least he hadn't found out about whatever Ferris had done. Speaking of which, what _had _Ferris been doing in the library that night? Caitlyn glanced curiously at aforementioned brother, but this resulted in no revelation in thought, and so she sighed and went back to chewing on her venison. Sometimes, with Ferris, you could never really tell.

* * *

It was late and dark, and the castle halls were empty. Ferris very carefully bolted all the doors leading out of his room, and lit a single candle on his desk, before unlocking and opening the linens chest at the foot of his bed. After digging through the thick, rich fabrics there, he pulled out the book that was hidden beneath and brought it back to his desk. The flickering light of the candle made the front cover visible.

_Chemistry and the Human Body_

_by_

_Beglan O'Tory_

Nodding to himself, Ferris flipped open the volume and thumbed through the pages, looking. Miscellaneous images flew past as he turned to the desired page; diagrams of the effect of acid on human tissue, an illustration of the internal organs of the human body, the structural make up of a human skeleton. Finally, Ferris reached the section he'd been looking for. The title page held an index.

_Poisons_

_Toxins:_

_Neurological paralytics….…page 356_

_Neurological disruptors…page 361_

_Cardiovascular disruptors…page 367 _

_Internal corrosives…...… page 368_

_Topical corrosives…...….page 374_

_Aeriform toxins….…..page 380_

_Venoms:_

_Harvesting methods…...….page 386_

_Venomous snakes …..…page 392_

_Venomous lizards….page 397_

_Venomous amphibians…page 402_

_Venomous fish...…page 408_

_Venomous insects…...….page 413_

_Venomous spiders…...…page 420_

_Venomous mammals…..page 429_

_Non-lethal poisons:_

_Non-lethal paralytics…..…page 433_

_Non-lethal disruptors…..page 439_

_Non-lethal corrosives and acids...page 444_

_Non-lethal venom dosage chart….page 450_

_Antidotes:_

_Antidotes for various paralytics...page 455_

_Antidotes for various disruptors…..page 460_

_Antidotes for various corrosives...page 463_

_Antidotes for various venoms...page 468_

_Formulation of a venom antidote….page 472_

Here, Ferris stopped and scanned over the chart, pursing his lips as he weighed his options. Hard-to-get venoms were out of the question. Fancy, yes. Effective? Very. But they were extremely expensive and hard to come by. He could get by with less. He definitely didn't want this to be 'non-lethal'. He wanted to make sure that the subject was very much dead, actually. He didn't want to have to do this twice. He wasn't sure what a 'disruptor' was, and he'd already looked into paralytics – the recipes were exact and hard-to-make, some with a few ingredients that were a little less than ordinary. Poisoning by an aeriform toxin – a noxious gas, would also be rather tricky. That left him with corrosives. A topical corrosive would be tricky to apply, but maybe an internal corrosive, something that you ingested… Ferris cocked an interested eyebrow and turned to page number three hundred and sixty-eight

After flipping through complicated recipes for more precise toxins of the sort, he came upon a long section of entries on poisonous plants.

_Strychnine tree:_

_The _Strychnos nux-vomica L., _Also known as the Strychnine tree or the Nux vomica,_ _is native to the far southeastern reaches of the eastern steppes, and, according to ancient texts, can be found in certain places in Arrida…_

Ferris read no further on the article. He wasn't about to go traipsing off to the Eastern countries just to find some plant. There had to be one closer to home.

_Nightshade:_

_The _Solanum dulcamara, _also known as the Nightshade or the Horsenettle_,_ classified as a weed, can be found in_ parts_ of Hibernia, Picta, Araluen, Celtica, Gallica, and surrounding countries. The Nightshade comes in widely varying sizes, and all can grow attractive flowers and fruits. The under-ripe berries of this plant are filled with the toxin _atropine, _a deadly alkaloid. If consumed, this toxin causes almost immediate failure of the vocal cords, followed quickly by respiratory distress, in some cases hyperventilating. Fever, high blood pressure, and hallucination follow. If convulsions and seizures set in, a coma is likely to follow, and soon after, death. _

Ferris paused and thought to himself. Well, it at least grew in his region, but he wasn't quite sure how to identify it. There was a picture and a short description off to one side, but it looked very generic, and, to his untrained eye, just like the harmless garden berry plants that his mother kept in her courtyard. He'd eaten those dozens of times as a child. Though he knew this plant was different, he just wasn't sure how to get the right one, and he definitely didn't want to go poison hunting and come back with only a handful of harmless berries. He looked down the next few pages until he came to another attractive article.

_Monkshood:_

_The _Aconitum, _also known as Monkshood and Wolfsbane, comes in numerous species. It grows readily in damp mountain valleys throughout the northern regions of Hibernia, Picta, Araluen, Apina, and surrounding countries. The attractive and distinctive petals of the Monkshood bloom comes in a variety of colors, including blue, purple, white, yellow and pink. The roots of this plant contain large amounts of the toxin _psuedaconitine,_ an alkaloid, which is deadly in concentrated amounts. If consumed, the toxin causes nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and severe abdominal pain, as well as tingling and numbness of the mouth and face. In severe cases, this numbness can spread to the limbs and extremities, accompanied by pronounced motor weakness and sharper pain the gut. Sweating, dizziness, respiratory distress and confusion are common symptoms of aconite poisoning. The toxin kills by distressing the normal functions of the cardio muscle, often resulting in ventricular arrhythmias and asystole. The toxin is non-traceable post-mortem, except by thorough dissection and examination of the cardio muscle._

Here, Ferris felt his attention perk up. He recognized the picture of the Monkshood immediately. He had definitely seen the flower before, but hadn't realized that the plant was poisonous. No wonder, then, that it was such an icon for superstitious association with witches and sorcerers and werewolves and all kinds of make-believe nasties. He was positive that Annir would have a stash of them somewhere in his office – the man was always using obscure plants in his experiments, and if this one was as prevalent as O'Tory expressed, it was likely to assume that Annir would have laid hands on more than enough samples. And besides all that, Ferris noted with a morbid, cruel smirk, the toxin was untraceable, and could easily be mistaken for severe food poisoning. In a way, that was what it was. Perfect. Glancing around first, Ferris quickly memorized the picture of the flower and root, closed the book, and snuck out of his room, heading for the lower reaches of the castle.

Annir's office was on the ground floor of Dun Kilty, and thankfully, was kept unlocked at all times. It took a brave soul to trespass on his domain – not for Annir himself, but for the organization – or lack thereof – of his office and storeroom. Annir was an elderly healer, goodhearted with a readiness to help anyone and everyone, but he was admittedly quite eccentric. His workspace was cluttered with jars, beakers, plants and tools, along with a few cages of animals and tubs of pickled things that frankly, Ferris didn't want to identify. Dried herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling, and barrels and baskets held volumes of seeds and powders. The room was lined with miss-matched shelves – some full of pestles, pincers, tongs and other tools, others overflowing with books. (some of which appeared less like books and more like messy old piles of paper) Along one of the walls was another large shelf, this one full of labeled glass jars of different sizes. It took several minutes, confusion, and a good deal of grimaces over the strange and sometimes disgusting inventory, but eventually, Ferris found what he was looking for.

_Root of the aconitum ferox_

_DANGER!_

_POISONOUS!_

A crude sketch of a skull and crossbones added to the warning effect. Carefully, Ferris removed the jar from its place on the shelf and opened it. He took out the cheesecloth that he'd brought with him and removed one root ball from the container, wrapping it up securely in the cloth. Surely, in all this mess, Annir wouldn't miss one aconite root ball. The man could hardly remember what room belonged to him, much less what he kept in it. Speaking of which…

Ferris pulled out Beglan O'Tory's book and placed it on Annir's desk. He covered it with some old lab reports and miscellaneous papers and a pile of herbs for good measure. So, when the king came asking Annir for the book in the morning, Annir would find it in his office, not remember taking it (but not remember _not _taking it, either) and Ferris would be off the hook. Smiling at his own deviousness, Ferris replaced the aconium jar back on the shelf and quickly fled the healer's office, grabbing a mortar and pestle as he went. He didn't know too much about preparing poisons, but he had a feeling that he'd need that.

Once back in his room, he unlocked a drawer in his desk and produced a stained parchment, covered in small, neat writing smudged and stained over the years. On it were basic instructions on concentrating, grinding, and refining biological toxins. He'd stolen the article weeks ago, when he'd first started formulating his plan. Pulling out the arconium, mortar and pestle, Ferris took a deep breath and studied the paper with a determined, ruthless gaze. By this time tomorrow night, he thought, there would be one less O'Carrick in Clonmel.

* * *

A/N: Call me a morbidly fascinated nerd, (because that's what I am) but I had SO MUCH FUN researching toxins, venoms, poisonous plants and all that. Really. I feel like such a sick, sadistic author… Sorry, Halt! I'd watch out for that shrimp dinner, if I were you! (I always knew seafood could kill you!) Bwahahaha! Like I said, this chapter was really fun to write. Shorter than the last, but it actually took longer because of the research. I hope you enjoy it!

Read and review, please!


	5. The Perfect Day

A/N: It has taken me so long to update this! Gah! My life has gotten really busy as of late. Well, here's the next chapter.

I always knew shellfish were evil.

For everyone who was waiting for this update, you can thank PhantomDragon12for reminding me that I needed to update this story! XD

Enjoy, all! And review, please!

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**Chapter 5**

**The Perfect Day**

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**

Halt had been sleeping. Actually, he had been sleeping quite fitfully, but that changed rather suddenly when a flailing mass of screaming flesh flung itself at him with the energy one might associate with a five year old.

"Wake up, Halt!" It screeched at him. His only partially-awake ears were very sensitive at this time in the morning, and he covered them with a pained groan.

"Go away." He managed.

The screeching voice calmed down somewhat, and sighed heavily.

"Come _on, _Halt. You love mornings! Now get up!"

Actually, Halt wasn't sure if he liked mornings all that much. Well, at least, not right now. He actually liked sleeping pretty well. He said nothing, but pulled his thick comforter up over his face.

"Of all days, of course you would pick today to be a grump, wouldn't you?"

Halt's eyes were still closed, but his brow furrowed. What was so special about today? This was just like any other morning – well, except for the fact that he _really _didn't want to get out of bed. Whoever had woken him seemed to read his thoughts.

"You've forgotten, haven't you?" the voice sighed. "Of course you have. You do every year. Fine. I'll have to remind you."

And before he could even ponder the implications of those words, there were a pair of arms wrapped about him and hugging him with enough force to knock the wind out of him. His sleepy eyes widened to a surprising size as he tried to assess what was going on.

"Happy Birthday, Halt!" Caitlyn chorused cheerfully, her face smashed up against his nightshirt.

Halt looked down at her, trying to calm down from her sudden attack. He swatted at her arms about him.

"Would you let go, please?"

"No." She said simply, the smile not leaving her face.

He sighed, and eventually settled into returning her hug, though not quite so enthusiastically. A grumpy soul could only muster so much energy for affection in the morning.

"Here," Caitlyn produced a pair of breeches and a tunic. "put these on and let's get going." She untangled herself from him and lept up off his bed without explanation.

Halt looked about confusedly. It was only then that he noticed that it was still dark outside. "Wait… Caitlyn, where are we 'going'?"

"Archer's point. I have something to show you."

It was cool outside, the crisp ocean air rising up off the cliffs with enough speed to throw the loose curls of Halt's hair up off his forehead. The trip to Archer's Point was made in relative silence, the two siblings almost sensing the need for quiet as the sun just began to make it's trek skyward on the distant horizon.

Pink-orange light danced merrily over the ever-rolling waves of ocean. The reflections created a beautiful show of glittering lights in the foreground, while the swelling clouds of brilliant red and orange highlighted the sun as it cast its warm rays upon the ever-present blue backdrop of the sky. One by one, the stars took their bows and faded away to let the sun once again resume its rule over the skies.

The two Hibernian teens watched with serene fascination, breathing in the fresh morning air and surveying the morning sun with a contented sense of wonder.

Halt, having woken from his sluggish stupor, took the silent moment to reflect on how he really did love mornings. It was the promise of a new beginning – a new day, a new opportunity, a new work to be done. He closed his eyes and listened to the distant cry of gulls down by the fishermen's docks. A tolling bell announced the departure of one of the many fishing boats, and he thought he could hear a herd of highland cattle mooing at each other from a hillside somewhere behind him. The countless leaves of the forest above and behind him rattled musically in the ocean updraft, and the taste of salt floated in on the wind, mixed with a distinct aroma all its own – the rich, leafy smell of autumn.

"It's a beautiful morning." Caitlyn said quietly. Halt gave her one of his rare grins.

"It is. Thanks for waking me up."

She chuckled at him. "You're welcome." She gave him a spontaneous hug. "Happy birthday, Halt."

He put an arm around her in return. "You keep saying that."

"Well it is your birthday."

"Not it's not. A person can only have one birthday. I was born once. All of the 'birthdays' after that are simply celebrating a rather self-evident event."

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Halt, why can't you just go along with tradition, just once?" But she couldn't help but smile as she shook her head at him. "Here," she let go of him, and turned to a leather satchel behind her. "I made you this." She produced her sketchbook, and pulled out a sheet of paper, folded in half, and handed it to him.

He took it, looking at her as he did so. She smiled at him expectantly in a way that told him clearly that she wanted him to look at it.

He did, carefully unfolding it so that he could see the image on the paper.

It was them, at Archer's Point, much like they were now. Halt was perched at the entrance of the cave, his face turned out towards the ocean, one leg dangling from the edge, one tucked up under his chin. Caitlyn sat next to him. Her sketchbook was in her lap as always, but her face was upturned as his, her hair pulled up and windblown by the common drafts of the cliffs. The detailing on both of their faces not only dispelled any doubts as to who they were, but it also conveyed the emotion evident on both of their faces – elation, contentment – joy, even. Halt looked from the beautiful sketch down to the title that Caitlyn had scrawled at the bottom. _"Freedom". _He smiled.

"It's beautiful, Caitlyn. Thank you." He turned to her and smiled widely. She smiled back. "I thought you might like to be able to remember this place when you're not actually able to come here. You know, busy with… Stuff." She'd almost said 'kingly stuff', but thought it better to not bring up the unpleasant subject for her brother.

He didn't seem to notice. He looked again at the drawing, then back up at his little sister. "It's not the place, you know." He told her. "It's you." His voice was sincere. "It's your company that really makes this place so worthwhile. It doesn't really matter so much where I am so long as you're there with me."

She looked truly touched by his words, and the two shared a look of brotherly-sisterly affection. Then, Halt's eyes diverted to where the sun still rose over the horizon. He gestured out the opening of the small cave to the beautiful sight. "Though I suppose that this is a plus."

She laughed, and reached into her bag again, before shoving a honey sweetroll under his nose. He looked down at it with delighted surprise.

"And so is this." He said, biting into it gratefully. Halt had always had a fondness for honey.

She laughed at him, and bit into her own sweetroll.

After a moment of silent eating, Halt looked sidelong at her, and in an uncharacteristic flair of spontaneous affection, leaned over to plant a brotherly kiss on the side of her head, before putting an arm about her shoulders.

"You know, with the whole thing being a rather superfluous excuse for celebration, you've managed to make this a wonderful birthday," He looked out across the ocean, "and it's barely even morning."

She smiled widely up at him. "I try." She said humbly, but inside, he was all but glowing with pleasure. It wasn't every day that Halt was in such an uplifted mood, and to know that she'd given him some reason to be happy made her smile for all she was worth. She sighed contentedly, gazed out at the picturesque horizon, and then had to laugh as Halt turned to dig through her bag, searching for more sweetrolls.

It truly was a perfect day.

Perhaps it was by design that the morning was so perfect, because the contrasting events of the following day and evening were anything but.

When they got back to Dun Kilty, the rest of the castle was beginning to wake, and Caitlyn was obliged into wishing Ferris a happy birthday too, though she didn't mean it so much as for Halt. Ferris would have his numerous friends to wish him a happy birthday – Halt, however, only got a few stiff-voiced congratulations and well-wishes from his distanced parents and a few people he barely knew, and that was all. Caitlyn was the one who always made sure he had a good birthday. Well, at least she tried. Unfortunately, being the heir to the throne tended to busy up one's schedule.

That was why Caitlyn had taken Halt out so early – because she knew that this would happen. People would swarm in, crowding to wish the future king – and his brother – a happy birthday. As they always did on the public part of their birthday, Halt looked absolutely miserable, and Ferris sent irked glances at his decidedly un-enthusiastic brother as the court nobles filed past. Once or twice, Caitlyn spotted Halt glancing privately down at the drawing she'd given him that morning, looking longingly at the graphite shades, before quickly stashing it back in an inner pocket before Ferris could see. Caitlyn smiled sympathetically for him as she sat dutifully in her brother's company.

Eventually, the public well-wishing session was over, and Halt was up out of his elevated chair before his father could even formally excuse him. Ferris grimaced at his brother, and maintained proper manners, if not a bit devoid of emotion, as his father dismissed him.

Ferris spent the rest of his day with his personal friends, most of whom were around his age and from the courts Clonmel. They shared similar personalities, and it was perhaps this collective attribute that made Ferris's siblings avoid them as much as possible. Caitlyn didn't particularly like his friends, especially the few that were of the female variety. As she walked down the corridor to Halt's room, Caitlyn passed Ferris and one of his aforementioned 'friends', snogging in a corner. She blushed as red as a beet, perhaps from embarrassment, but more likely from anger, and stormed on towards Halt's room.

"Ugh!" She entered without knocking and shut the door behind her. Halt looked up in mild surprise from where he'd been sprawled out on his bed, reading a book. "I cannot believe I am related to that git. So disgusting." She threw herself into one of Halt's armchairs in a most unroyal fashion.

"What's he done now?" Halt asked, and then quickly added, "Wait, do I want to know?" He answered his own question, "No, I don't want to know."

Caitlyn told him anyway. "He's off hiding in a corner snogging some noble's daughter. What's her name, Angeline? No, that one is blonde… Maery? No, wait… Maybe it was Fiona? Oh!" She gestured hopelessly, "You see, I can't even keep track of all the girls he associates with!" Caitlyn tossed her head back and suppressed a shudder. "Perverted little stinker."

Halt listened to his sister's rant but made no comment. He was equally as disgusted as she was, but as in all things had less to say about it. He would endorse all she said, but felt no need to say it himself.

"Will you tell mother and father?" Halt asked her.

Caitlyn let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Are you kidding? I've already told mum twice, and she doesn't believe me. You'd think someone besides me would notice the fact that he's always got a different girl glued to his arm."

"Bauren told me a few days ago that nearly all the castle staff knows about it - they're all just too scared to tell father." Halt told her, not looking up from his book.

Caitlyn sighed. Bauren was the master of Dun Kilty – that is, he was the one who worked his tail off to make sure that the royal family didn't have to worry about having clean chamber pots and fresh linens every day. Needless to say, he and his staff were busy people, but he was one of the most trustworthy people that Caitlyn had ever met. Scruffy, old and with a Hibernian accent deep enough to muddle anything he said to the point of non-intelligibility, perhaps, but reliable nonetheless. If he said it was true, it probably was.

"Well, I do wish he'd stop, regardless." Caitlyn said finally.

Halt gave vent to a derisive snort. "Good luck with that. You might as well try to catch a laechonnachie to set on his girlfriend. Or girlfriends, rather."

"You know, that's not such a bad idea," She said, looking up in thought. Halt just smiled at her.

"_Halt! Why are you hiding in there? There are people out here who wish to see you. Honestly, can you not uphold your duty for two seconds? You're sixteen now, for pity's sake…"_

It was his mother, screeching annoyance outside his door. He grimaced as he rose from his bed. He looked at the door, and then raised his eyebrows at Caitlyn. She shrugged, and made a funny face as her mother continued ranting outside. He smiled, but kept quiet. He gestured to a door on the other side of the room, and she nodded, rising from her seat and crossing the floor quietly. He followed her, and before she ghosted to her own room through the door, whispered:

"Escape while you can. I'll see you at dinner tonight – assuming I survive, at anyrate."

"Have a happy birthday, brother."

He let out a scoff. "Some birthday. More like a public smothering of sheer boredom. I'd rather be back in the woods. It's such a nice day out, today…" His voice trailed off as he went to answer his mother at the door.

* * *

Thankfully, there was no public to smother him that night at dinner – it was just the royal family. Though, reflecting, Halt wasn't sure if that was any better than the alternative. His father seemed to be even more rigid in stature than normal, due to the 'formal' occasion of his sons' sixteenth birthday. As for his mother, she seemed to expect immaculate table manners from all of her children, casting contemptuous glares when they didn't display the utmost composure.

Halt, for his part, still thought the entire event of a birthday celebration was completely ridiculous. Under the circumstances, Caitlyn had to agree. Ferris just played along with his parent's game of formality.

Unnoticed by the rest, there was a secretive glint shining in Ferris's eyes – one that spoke to a dangerous scheme. As the dinner plates were set out, Ferris studied them intensely but unobtrusively. After he was suitably satisfied with what he saw, he cast a darting glance at his twin.

Halt was oblivious to the sudden attention. He simply looked down at his plate expressionlessly. It was shrimp dinner tonight. Halt was indifferent to the meal, but he knew Ferris liked it. He waited for all to be served, and then everyone began to eat. Halt took a bite and stopped for a moment, thinking there was a bitter taste to the shrimp meat. Unnoticed, Ferris watched him with bated breath. Then, Halt dipped the shrimp into the butter sauce facilitated on the plate, and the problem of taste was solved.

Ferris's anxiety waned somewhat, but he still watched his brother carefully, waiting. Soon enough, he began to see what he was waiting for.

First, Halt started swallowing a bit harder than he needed to. Then, he stopped eating. He was sweating lightly along his brow, Ferris could tell. He was breathing more heavily than normal, and blinking often. It didn't take too long for their mother to notice.

"Halt, is something wrong, son?" She asked in a steady tone.

When Halt didn't answer – an incredibly rude gesture to his mother, the Queen - Caitlyn looked up from her meal, confused. Ferris looked up and pretended to be surprised. When Caitlyn saw Halt's face, confusion turned into concern.

"Halt?" she asked, "Are you alright?"

By this time, everyone was looking at the young man sitting adjacent to the king - even some of the present waiters were watching the prince with confused glances. Ferris hid a sadistic smile.

Finally, Halt looked up. "I…" He said between heavy breaths. "I…" He tried again, but he had to stop talking as a wave of nausea overcame him. He blinked rapidly, and then, without another word, rose noisily from his chair and headed for the door, walking more quickly as he went. Once he'd exited the room, his family looked after him in confusion. A few moments later, a middle-aged maid came walking as quickly as she could without running into the room.

"Prince Halt is ill, Majesties," She announced worriedly. "horribly ill!"

Ferris bit his lip to keep from smirking as Caitlyn gasped.

"Fetch Annir at once." Farlon rose from his seat, Rianna following suit beside him. With a new rush in each step, the Royal family filed out of the dining room, abandoning their dinners.

Ferris stayed behind the rest, keeping his smile to himself. Annir wouldn't be able to help his brother. Halt was as good as dead. _And I, _Ferris thought to himself smugly, _am as good as king. _He smiled to himself again. Ferris could almost imagine the crown on his head, the respects paid, the honors given. He lifted his head spiritedly. _Today, _he told himself, _will be my perfect day._

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* * *

_

A/N: Gah! I'm stalling! I swear, I'll get this story going faster in these next few chapters! ...No, REALLY. FOR SERIOUS. I have so many plans for this story, but I keep moving it so darn slowly! By the time I'm done, it'll have twenty gobzillion chapters. *sigh* Well, thanks for putting up with another chapter, y'all!

Oh, and I apologize for any typos - my eyes are burning out of their sockets as I proof-read this... So please tell me if you see any mistakes. Thanks! R&R!


	6. Back to Normal

**Chapter 6**

**Back to Normal**

**

* * *

**

"I swear, I'm never touching a bloody plate of shrimp ever again." Halt said weakly from where he lay, buried beneath sheets and blankets.

He'd been sick for four days, now. The first two and a half days were utterly chaotic – no one knew what was wrong with Halt or how to cure him. It had been obvious from the start that it was some sort of food poisoning – exactly what that poison was, however, was anyone's guess.

Caitlyn smiled sadly from where she sat by him, eyes red from loss of sleep. "I can't blame you." Caitlyn had stayed with Halt since he'd fallen sick, trying to help him and the healers in any way that she could. She'd been terrified for her brother. She gripped his hand now. "I thought you might die, Halt."

Indeed, Halt had been on death's doorstep through most of the ordeal. All of the castle healers were on duty to cure the sickly prince, but none of them could seem to concoct a proper antidote for whatever poison had found its way into Halt's system. He'd been frightfully ill, retching horribly and shaking and feverish. It had been worst on the second day. Caitlyn shivered as she recalled one of Halt's more frightening episodes.

"_Caitlyn," He'd said rather suddenly, blinking in an almost fearful way, "Caitlyn, I can't see."_

_Caitlyn had looked at him oddly. She'd glanced around at the well-lit room, and then back at Halt. "W-what do you mean?" She'd asked him anxiously._

"_I can't _see._" Halt had said, panicked. "I can't see anything." And then, compounding on Caitlyn's horror, he'd started to seize up, his limbs jerking oddly as he fell back against the mattress._

"_Halt? Halt! Halt, stop it – Annir! Come quickly!" She'd tried to still her brother's movements, but he'd seemed to be absent from the world, drawn away in some feverish delusion. She'd felt a cold hand of fear clench around her gut as she looked down at her brother's face. Halt's eyes, now unseeing, were slowly dimming in a foreign, yet instantly recognizable fashion._

"_ANNIR!" She'd yelled through tears. Her brother was dying._

Back in the present, Caitlyn shivered at the memory. She'd never had to witness someone dying before in her young life, and she definitely didn't want to start a trend now, with her closest brother and friend.

Halt seemed to read her thoughts through a wearily cracked eyelid. "I'm not dead, you know." He said, his voice breaking dryly from his lingering illness.

Caitlyn looked over at him. "You were closer than I would have liked." She said, obviously still shaken and quite exhausted from staying up day and night, looking after her brother.

He raised an ironic eyebrow at her before rolled over. "Funny, _I'm _the one who did all the dying, the retching, and endured all of that horrible pain, I'll never eat seafood again, and yet _you're _the one complaining."

Caitlyn couldn't help but smiling. Halt was grumpy, tired, annoyed and sick, and his voice came out even more sarcastic and sardonic than usual.

It was the most beautiful sound she'd heard all week.

Rising from her seat, she went over to her brother and hugged him where he lay, ignoring his aggravated expression, and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm just glad you're alive, Halt." She told him honestly. She pulled his blankets up around his shoulders.

"Are you going to leave me alone, now?" Halt griped impatiently.

Caitlyn sighed. "Of course, Halt."

She had just reached the door when, "Caitlyn?"

She turned. "Yes?"

There was a brief pause. "Thanks." It was spoken curtly, but the gratitude in the gesture was obvious.

She smiled, but made no reply. Instead, she snuffed out the last candle sitting by doorway and left quietly, leaving Halt alone to rest.

* * *

The only person who wasn't happy about Halt's recovery, of course, was Ferris. Currently, he was moodily slouched in a plush armchair whilst he listened, rather unwillingly, to his father lecture the kitchen staff on the safe preparation of food.

_It should have worked, darn it! _He thought to himself, seething. Either that stupid book had lied, or he had done something wrong. But he couldn't have done something wrong. Could he have? It had all been going so smoothly, so according to plan. But then, with seemingly no reason whatsoever, Halt had made a miraculous recovery. Sure, he wouldn't be up and about for another few weeks, but that was just it – he _would live. _He wasn't supposed to. Not in Ferris' mind. _That idiot._ Ferris hissed silently, sulkily rising from his seat, before he stomped off towards his room.

_He's going to make me try again._

_

* * *

_

The king and queen were infinitely relieved that Halt was better. For the first time in a long time, Rianna seemed to exhibit strong motherly-ness towards Halt, constantly checking on him (much to Halt's annoyance) and making sure that he was being looked after. Farlon seemed relieved, though no one could quite tell if he was more relieved that his son was well, or that the heir to his crown was well. Once he'd initially spoken to Halt after the whole fiasco was over, he'd gone on with daily life as if nothing much had happened.

"Ferris, are you going to go wish your brother well?" Rianna asked her son in a rather annoyed tone. It had been three days since Halt had begun to recover, and Ferris had not once expressed his relief towards his twin.

Ferris looked up at his mother. "Of course, mother." He said. Usually, he kept his voice smooth and kind with his parents. Today, for some reason, it was short and choppy. Rianna was about to ask him if something was wrong, but he abruptly left the room, quickly excusing himself. She watched him with a puzzled expression, but figured that he was simply tensed up from worry over his twin. She shook her head sadly. Whether they would admit it or not, Ferris and Halt cared for each other. At least, that is what the queen liked to believe.

Sometimes, the truth is worse than any trick of imagination.

Ferris and Halt had left the realm of 'tolerating one another', much less 'caring for one another' years ago. Their quiet rivalry had worn on for most of their childhood and now their teenaged years. For one reason or other, they could never see eye to eye, and were always getting into fights. Ferris was usually the one to start the fights, but Halt was the one who made them worse. Ferris was the one who enjoyed arguing, but Halt was the one who always won their debates. Ferris was the one who wanted everything, but couldn't have it. Halt was the one who had everything, but didn't want it.

"Hello." Ferris said bluntly, standing awkwardly in the doorway of Halt's room.

Halt glanced from his bed over at his brother. He didn't say anything at first, simply studying the other boy instead. "Hi." He eventually replied.

They locked gazes. Ferris shifted uncomfortably. "It's… it's good to have you… back, I guess." He said, trying to sound casual, trying to hide the fact that the words tasted like vinegar on his tongue.

Halt nodded. "Thanks." He said unfeelingly. The word was odd, directed at Ferris. Rare was the day when Halt's twin did something kind for him.

"Right, well…" Ferris fidgeted again. "Get well soon, then." He hastily made his escape, cursing to himself under his breath as he went.

Halt watched him go with the slightest of frowns on his face. Something was off, he could tell. He just couldn't figure out what. He eventually shrugged it off. He was much too tired to agonize over a useless case like Ferris. He rolled over and shut his eyes, falling asleep quickly.

* * *

About three weeks later, Halt was back to his normal daily life, busy schedule, dry lessons and all, and although he was overly wary of any plate of seafood that found its way in front of him, he was overall no worse for the wear of his mysterious illness. He was still the reserved, dead-pan Halt that everyone in the castle knew, and may or may not have loved.

At the moment, even Caitlyn wanted to deck her brother upside the head.

"Halt, it's a bloody _haircut, _for goodness sakes!"

"Caitlyn, language!" Rianna hissed at her daughter.

"But I don't _need _a haircut!" Halt insisted, pulling at one of the loose curls of his hair. "Look at it! It hasn't even grown an inch!"

"It's growing out unevenly. It's messy and unsightly. You'll go to the barber at once." Rianna's voice held a tone of finality. She looked at him more closely, and added: "I'll have to tell them to give you a shave, as well."

Halt made an exasperated gesture. "Mother, I am quite sure that I can _shave _on my own. Besides, I don't even have a beard!"

"Well, you are a bit scruffy, Halt." Caitlyn interjected.

Halt glared._ You're not helping._

Caitlyn shrugged back at him. _You _are _rather scruffy._

Halt rolled his eyes and touched a hand to his cheek. Okay, so there was a _little _bit of stubble. But did that really constitute the torture of having to deal with a haircut, much less a shave?

Rianna sighed, as if reading Halt's mind. "Halt, just go. The sooner you go, the sooner it'll be over with."

* * *

Hours later, Halt was brooding in his bedroom while reading a book, his sister standing behind him.

"You know, I really don't understand why you despise haircuts so much." Caitlyn said, taking great joy in running her fingers through Halt's freshly-cut hair and messing it up quite entirely.

Halt was scowling. "It makes my head itch. And it's just rather pointless – I mean, why do I have to sit there awkwardly and have them cut it when I could do just as good a job in half the time? Not to mention the shaving." He shook his head. "It's downright threatening – I don't trust any of those men should to hold a razor to my face, shave or no."

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, gently knocking him on the side of the head before she resumed playing with his dark curls. "You really ought to just calm down, Halt. I get my hair cut all the time. It's not a big deal."

"Yes, well you're a girl."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well… Girls get their haircut more often, don't they? And they _enjoy _caring about their hair and such… I don't. I could happily forget about it."

"Oh, so you'd rather be bald, then? And no, not _all _girls care that much about their hair."

Halt huffed. "You know, you make things rather difficult for me."

Caitlyn laughed at him. "One day, Halt," She told him, "You're going to let your hair grow out so jagged and messy, and you'll have such a scruffy beard on your chin that I won't recognize you."

Halt scoffed, looking away in annoyance. "Not if mother has anything to say about it."

She rolled her eyes again, smiling despite herself. "Oh that should have a style-less twit for a brother. Come on. Dinner's in a few minutes. And no, before you ask, we're not having seafood. It's pork stew, tonight."

Halt followed her out of the room, but not before glancing at his own reflection in the mirror. He squinted at it, trying to imagine himself with uncut, messy hair and a beard. He shook his head, chuckling at the mental image. _Like that will ever happen, _he told himself. He rose and followed his sister to dinner.

* * *

A/N: Ugh, this is such a horrible chapter. It's like a Frankenstein chapter or something…. I apologize for the choppiness. I'm trying to speed things up so I don't spend an eternity in Hibernia. I'm assuming all of you already know where this is going – he'll end up in Araluen eventually – and the majority of my story takes place in Araluen, so I really need to get going. :P And it's also short. Bear with me, please!


	7. If at First You Don't Succeed

A/N: What is this? An update? By Jove, I do believe it is! A remarkable creature of great rarity, it is… They rarely appear from hibernation, as they are almost constantly held captive by a strange being called the 'Elfpen'.

…Yeah, I know. No updates. Ever. I'm sorry, all you people who waste your time on my stories! I honestly don't know how many of you actually enjoy these things these days. Anywho, I think a short explanation is in order:

Well, first, it's nearly Christmas. And while I have next to no plans at all for Christmastime this year, (a feat to be achieved, I think) I have been spending most of my time wallowing in the wonder that is Christmas break. Plus, this my last Christmas as a legal 'child', so I'm having fun shrugging off as much responsibility as I can.

Second, I have been in a little - okay, scratch that - HUGE writer's block. I've only just recovered some of my inspiration.

Third, when I'm not sleeping or enjoying Christmas festivities, I am reading the best early Christmas present I've ever received: Ranger's Apprentice book 10. I got it in the mail about a week ago from very, very wonderful Aussie friend of mine, and have been doing my best not to inhale it in one sitting ever since. I mean, come on, it traveled half way around the world to get here, I'll at least appreciate the fact by taking time to enjoy it. I'm about half way done with it now. I'll just say that it's amazing so far and leave it at that.

Well, I think that about sums it up. On with the new chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**If at First You Don't Succeed**

**

* * *

**

_Approximately six months later…_

"No no, not quite so curvy. It's more angular, like this," the quill described a sharply angled brush across the parchment. A small hand brushed it away.

"Fine, fine. So it's like this," A different quill attempted to duplicate the gesture.

"Well… Sort of. But it's still a bit sloppy. If you do it quickly, you won't leave blotches behind like that."

"Ugh! Fine!" The second quill attempted the same figure once more. This time, the ink escaped its intended boundaries in a violent manner. The hand holding the first quill attempted to smear away the stray ink, but to no avail.

"Now you're just angry."

"I _am_ angry."

"Well, if you calmed down, this would be a whole lot easier."

"I know, but it's just so darned frustrating!" Caitlyn threw down her quill, sending small flecks of black ink splattering across the half-used sheet of parchment. Halt winced.

"You know, Nessa won't be too happy if you waste all of her paper. And she already hates me as it is."

"Hates you? Why?" Caitlyn glared at her brother. Halt fidgeted uncomfortably.

"She says my handwriting is too perfect."

Caitlyn turned away, her chin raised in a mustered pose of dignity. "I can't help but agree with her at the moment. Maybe I shall call her in and _she _can teach me to write like a _normal_ person."

Halt raised his hands in defense. "Look, you're getting it all wrong-"

"Yes, you've already informed me of that – several times, actually," Caitlyn snapped.

Halt sighed. "No, not that," he said, "I meant me. I don't have perfect handwriting, I'm just good at copying things," He gestured to the open textbook of ancient Hibernian characters. "I wasn't trying to be a snob. I just want you to see the details, so you can be as good as I know you can be," He looked at her. "I'm sorry."

Caitlyn, consoled for the moment, softened. "Alright. Fine. Go on, show me how." And so, Halt repeated the character on the parchment, a nearly perfect replica of the one in the book. Most of the characters in the book looked much like those used to write in the Common Tongue, but with a few adjustments in style and appearance, and a whole array of accent marks and combinations. In addition, many characters from the Common alphabet were missing from the grid of Hibernian letters.

"It's not fair," Caitlyn bemoaned her brother's skill as she dipped her quill in ink to try again. "You'd think that this would be like drawing, but no, it's a thousand times more difficult." She attempted the character again, this time with better success. Unseen by her, Halt hid a smile. He too, found a strange irony in the fact that an artist such as Caitlyn found letter composition so difficult.

"That's better," Halt reassured her. "Try again."

She sighed. "How long will I have to keep at this?"

"Until you can write a neat sentence."

"Céilí Mór."

Halt's eyebrows rose. "Well, I see your _gaeilge_is still as good as ever. Try not to curse around mother, though. She'll throw a fit and blame me because I'm your tutor."

"D'fhéadfadh sé a fháil dom amach na gceachtanna." Caitlyn gave her brother a devious smile. "...diabhal é."

Halt rolled his eyes and swatted her shoulder. "Stop it. Try that letter again." He spoke firmly, but the smallest of smiles was on his face as he said it. Caitlyn saw it, and she kept smiling as she resumed her task.

"Better," Halt commented on her new attempt, and then rose to his feet. "I'm going to go get something for us to eat. Do four or five more of that one, then move on to the next."

"Alright. See if the kitchens have got anymore of those butter rolls, would you? I could smell them baking this morning."

"I will. I'll be back in a while."

Halt turned out of the study and into the hall, squinting into the bright light streaming in from the windows. The study was a stuffy, dim place, and so his eyes were a bit shocked by the new lighting. He drew in a deep breath as a crisp scent caught his attention. A door must be open somewhere, because he could smell the fresh spring grass and hear the rustling leaves of the outside trees. On a strange whim, Halt decided that he would take a detour on his way to the kitchens. The courtyard was just outside, and Halt did enjoy the outdoors infinitely more than the dark corridors of the Castle. Besides, going through the courtyard would shave off a few minutes of his trek to the kitchens.

As Halt stepped outside, a wall of fresh air washed down on him, tossing his hair out of his face and messing his clothes. Not that Halt minded. He loved the brisk spring winds, the way they felt and sounded. It was a needed break from the dusty air of indoors.

Halt's footsteps made a quiet hissing noise as he stepped through the long green grass and budding wildflowers. As he drew nearer to the main courtyard, Halt could hear the echoing sound of hammers on nails, but the noise ended rather abruptly. As he stepped onto the flagstones that bordered the yard, he saw why. A group of muscled, sweaty workers were climbing down from a nearby terrace where they had been re-shingling the old roof. Already, five or six of them were huddled happily around a smiling kitchen hand who was dealing out portions of bread, mutton, and water. It seemed as if they were taking a break for a midday meal much like Halt was.

One of the workers spotted Halt and bowed in a flustered manner. The others around him noticed the gesture and followed suit once they too saw the Prince. Halt narrowed his lips in a slightly embarrassed manner. He hated being bowed to. He wished he could tell them to stop, but that would be terribly rude. Instead, he merely inclined his head in recognition and carried on his way. After the Prince had passed without comment, the workers resumed their lunch, having all but forgotten about Halt's presence.

Halt breathed a sigh of relief as the workers stopped staring at him. He hated such attention, especially from people he didn't know personally. He knew it was a strange sentiment for a royal prince – especially for one from his heritage. Both his father and his brother loved the attention of their subjects.

Ferris loved it most.

It was just another respect in which Halt and Ferris had grown apart. Or rather, _were growing _apart, Halt thought. The prince furrowed his brow as the thought of his brother came to mind. The fights between him and Ferris had been escalating. Ferris seemed to be growing more and more obsessed with the idea that he, not Halt, should be King of Clonmel. At first, Halt had taken his brother's new fixation as a strange sort of outburst from the brother that Halt had never been able to understand. But when Ferris wouldn't shut up about it, when he began mentioning it every other time he saw his twin, Halt began to get a strange feeling deep in his gut. 'It's your fault!' Ferris had told him more than once, 'You're the only reason that _I'm _not the crown prince!' In the past, Ferris had used statements like these in various attempts to insult or guilt-trip his brother so that he might get his own way. However, as Halt and Ferris grew older, the younger twin seemed to use them more frequently with heavier conviction and a deeper bitterness in his eyes. Halt had no way of knowing what exactly had rooted itself in his brother's mind that caused such resentment, but something in the back of his mind told him that it was nothing good.

Halt didn't know it at the time, but it wouldn't be very long until he found out exactly what was eating away at his brother. In fact, it wouldn't take more than five minutes.

As Halt stepped up onto the heavy terrace bordering the courtyard, an unseen figure peered at him from behind a bound stack of shingles. And, right as the crown prince was passing under that particular section of roof, the figure pressed his full weight against the bail, sending the rough ceramic tiles tumbling down toward their intended target.

Halt heard a scraping sound above him and felt a shadow fall on his back, but he didn't even have time to look up before the huge pile of shingles was on top of him. As the rough ceramic shattered on his legs and knocked him to the stone pavement, Halt couldn't help but to scream. He looked down and saw red everywhere – dark shards of ceramic intermingled with his own bright blood. His head spun in shock, and, vaguely wondering where the tiles had come from, Halt looked up just in time to see Ferris duck behind the battlements on the wall above. He only had time enough to recognize his brother's expression of fury before his vision began to blur. He looked back down at his legs as the blood seeped through his torn clothes, and then at his scraped hands, sticky with a half blood, half clay paste. Taken over by the shock of it all, Halt's head fell back in a faint and he lay still on the stone, the last of his conscious thought spent on hoping that Ferris wouldn't be the one to find him.

* * *

He woke up in a busy room with people everywhere. He recognized a few of the castle healers, his mother, and a man who he knew was one of the workers that had been laying down shingles on the roof.

"…no one over thair, your majesty." The man was saying, wringing his felt cap nervously in his hands as the Queen's eyes bore into him. "We where takin' our midday meal, then we sees his highness passin' through, then, just as we's all gettin' settled for the meal, we hears his highness screamin'," He gestured to Halt. "We got thair as soon as we coud, your Majesty, but no whon was thair. Those shingles were set out to be ready when we got to those parts of the yard, but they whern't bein' messed with my men. I cahn't explain it, yer Majesty – they must've just been fallin'."

Rianna sighed. "Very well. Go now – I want all of those shingles removed from the roofs until they are needed for construction."

The man bowed deeply. "Vary whell, yer Majesty." He scurried away quickly, and Rianna turned to one of the healers.

"How bad is it?" She asked. The elderly healer opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, her young apprentice called:

"Miss, miss, he's waking!"

All eyes turned to Halt. Sure enough, his eyes had fluttered open, and he now looked down at his legs. Even cleaned up as they were, it wasn't a pretty sight. "Oh, Lord…" Halt blanched at looked away. The slashes burned like fire, and the sight of them made his stomach turn. None of the scratches were deep, but there were just so _many _of them. Also, now that he was swinging his neck around, Halt noticed that his head was hurting, too. He lifted a sore hand to feel a large lump on the back of his skull.

"You took a bit of a hit when you fell unconscious," The healer told him, gently removing his hand from his tender scalp. "Can you see straight, Highness?" She asked.

Halt swallowed before answering. "Yes. What happened?" He asked, his gaze of horror subconsciously finding its way back to his bloodied legs. The healer kindly put a white sheet over his legs so he wouldn't have to look at them.

"You were hit by a falling bundle of shingles in the courtyard." She explained for him. "Your legs are pretty cut up, and you've got a few scrapes on your hands and arms as well, from falling. But," The kindly woman sighed, and fixed Halt with a steady gaze. "You're lucky to be alive, your Highness. If those shingles had fallen half a second sooner, Clonmel would've lost her crown prince."

Her words rang inside Halt's head as he stared off at nothing in particular. Dead. He would have been dead. Half a second wasn't just lucky. It was a miracle. But it was a fluke in and of itself that Halt had been hit by a falling pile of shingles in the first place; something that odd and that well-timed wasn't the sort of accident that 'just happened'. Then, with terrifying clarity, Halt recalled Ferris' presence on the battlements above and his look of rage when he saw that Halt had survived. _Clonmel would've lost her crown prince. _

But not her only prince.

Halt took a sharp intake of breath as realization dawned.

"Halt," Rianna broke through her son's thoughts. "What's wrong?" She asked, concerned.

Halt knew he couldn't tell her. She'd never believe him. She'd hate him. It only took a few seconds for him to make his decision.

"Nothing," he lied, "it's nothing."

* * *

An hour or so later, Caitlyn burst into Halt's room wrought with worry. She'd heard of her brother's plight hours ago, but hadn't been allowed into his room until after the healers were sure that his wounds were clean and the bump to his head hadn't caused any lasting ill effects.

"Halt!" She cried, rushing to his bed. "Are you alright?"

"I'm alright." He said absently as he took her hand in reassurance.

"But your legs-"

"My legs are fine. Just a bit scratched up, is all."

She sighed. "With all the hubbub, I was worried that they'd been chopped off or something. What is it with you and getting into accidents like this, Halt?" Caitlyn asked him with a relieved smile. It was meant to be a loving jest like the ones that she and Halt had always shared with each other, but Halt could barely even look at her when she said it, much less grace her with one of his rare smiles. She frowned at him. "Halt," She asked, her brow drawn in concern, "is something wrong?"

Halt didn't answer her directly. Instead, he turned to the only remaining healer in the room. "Patrick, leave us, will you?" Halt asked, and the young man rose, bowed, and then exited, closing the door softly behind him. Halt and Caitlyn were left alone in the room.

"Halt, why'd you send him away? What's the matter?"

Before she could say anything else, Halt grabbed his sister's arm and drew her closer so she could hear him whisper: "It wasn't an accident, Caitlyn." He told her, his eyes meeting hers, "It was Ferris. I saw him in the battlements just after I was hit. I thought he might be relieved that I was alright, thought that he might help me, but… He was furious. Caitlyn, he's finally snapped." Halt lowered his voice further. "He's trying to kill me."

Caitlyn sat back, staring at Halt with wide eyes. She said nothing for a moment, before: "You… You think he would do that?"

Halt didn't reply, but his uncharacteristic look of horror said it all.

Caitlyn swallowed hard at this new revelation, and looked away for a moment in thought. "Halt," She asked after a minute or two, "is mum still here?" She asked.

Halt frowned. "No, she left quite a while ago. Why?"

Caitlyn paused, before exclaiming with feeling, "Céilí mór é."

* * *

I hope that one worker's Irish accent came through.

Also, I know I played the whole situation up a lot more than it was portrayed in the books, but hey, it's all for dramatic effect.

R&R, please! Hope you enjoyed it.


	8. Try, Try Again

**A/N:** If you've dropped by to read my profile recently, you probably already know that I've taken an official leave of fanfiction for a while. However, I did say I would drop in occasionally to update; this is one of those times. In truth, most of my withdrawal from fanfiction applies to reading, not writing. I read a few of my favorite authors when they update, but lately I've otherwise been staying away from the archives – mostly because it eats up hours of time and procrastination from more important things.

Anyway, I want you guys to know that though I'm not on here nearly so much as I used to be, I'm not dead. I AM reading your messages and reviews (I love reviews!) and appreciate them all, and I **will** continue to update my stories – albeit rather slowly.

Oh, and in case I've never said it before: Thank you so much for reading!

* * *

It was only a matter of days before Halt was walking again. Within two weeks, he was functioning normally, and after three and a half months, there was no visible sign of his brush with death, aside from a few nondescript scars on his calves.

The wounds between Halt and his twin, however, were only growing worse by the day.

Ever since Halt came to the realization that his brother may be trying to kill him, he'd been suffering from increased insomnia, and he could hardly eat anything. He wasn't afraid of Ferris, or his now apparent attempts at fratricide. What truly frightened Halt was the prospect of revealing Ferris' plot to his parents. Halt knew that if the King and Queen didn't find out about it soon, there could be nothing done to help his own case. However, Halt also knew that his parent's pride and joy resided in Ferris, and he just couldn't bring himself to ruin that joy. Halt may have been quiet, brooding, and stony-faced on the exterior, but deep inside he had a soft heart for friends and family – even a family that didn't love and respect him – or, the case of his brother, even want him alive. Deep down, Halt knew he could never ruin all of their lives for his own sake, despite everything at stake. He'd think of an alternative somehow. He would have to.

* * *

_**3 Months Later**_

"I brought you some coffee," Caitlyn shyly shuffled into her brother's darkened room. "thought you might like the energy." She tried to see his face, but he was sitting too close to the window for her to get a proper look. To anyone who didn't know him, Halt would have appeared as though he wanted to be left alone, but Caitlyn knew better than that. She saw the little things; the slight slump in his shoulders, the way he tilted his head towards her when she came closer, the new warp in the seat cushion where he'd been twisting in an intense grip.

Caitlyn silently set down the small tray of coffee next to him on the long window seat and sat on the other side to watch him quietly. Getting her brother to talk wasn't an easy task, but over the years she'd found the best way was to simply wait. Halt was a boy with much to say; he just needed his own time before he would say it. She spooned in a decent amount of sugar into her own coffee before she sipped at it calmly. After one last glance at Halt, she looked out into the peaceful rainstorm and waited.

* * *

_**Elsewhere in Dun Kilty**_

Ferris rocked back and forth mechanically as he sat in his chair, his knees curled up under his chin. His mind was racing – but then, his mind didn't do much else these days. Every other thought that passed through his head was Halt. Halt, the one who'd ruined his life since the day he was born. Halt, the brother who'd shirked off every honor that Ferris craved. Halt, the heir to the crown and Clonmel – the heir who would have the highest power and rank and respect in a thousand kilometers. Halt, the prince who had everything and _hated _it. Halt, who hated him. Halt, who'd taken everything from him. Halt, his twin and his brother. His hated, hated brother. Halt, Halt, _Halt. _

He had to make it stop.

But that was the problem. Ferris had tried – he'd already tried two times. Tried and _failed _two times to bring it all to an end and claim what should have been his in the first place. The first time, with the poison, Ferris had tried to end it as cleanly as possible, with the least contact possible. He'd thought it'd worked, but then it had all backfired, and he was left back where he started. The second time had been pure spontaneity. He'd been trying to think of a plan for nearly a year, but he was too spooked by his first try to really try anything. Then, he'd seen Halt walking towards the courtyard. With the workers on break, the roofs undefended… the opportunity had been irresistible. He'd climbed up and shoved the shingles off the roof in a surge of willpower. Of course, it hadn't worked. And now, he was back at square one, but things were in worse shape than ever. The crown was teetering on the brink of succession; his father was growing older and more sickly by the day, bedridden on what would likely become his deathbed. Time was of the essence if Ferris was to have his way, and Halt was still alive.

Not only that; Halt _knew._

It may not have been obvious to everyone, but every time Ferris saw Halt and met that dark, fathomless gaze, that gaze so alike and so different from his own, in the split second before Ferris had to look away, he could see a new knowledge and sadness. Deep, deep sadness that could never be rewritten. Halt was _sad _because of him; because of his intentions.

And that made him mad.

The quill that Ferris had been fiddling with snapped in his hands, the feather shredded beyond recognition. The rain stirred up more ferociously as the thunder rolled in, but Ferris went to the window and opened it anyway. The water poured in on his face and body in huge gusts, but he didn't even blink.

He knew what he would do. Tomorrow, his father had planned a trip for his two sons. That was when Ferris would make his move. And this time, he wouldn't fail. He couldn't fail.

Almost imperceptibly, into the brunt of the storm of lightning and rain, Ferris smiled.

After what seemed to be a long time, Halt picked up his coffee and stared into the swirling cup. "This can't keep up much longer," He said.

He'd spoken so quietly, Caitlyn almost couldn't understand him through the noise of the storm. "What do you mean?" She frowned.

He looked at her with unusually sad eyes. "Ferris is determined, Caitlyn. He'll try again."

Caitlyn looked away. She'd suspected that Ferris had taken up residence in the forefront of Halt's mind recently, but she'd hoped that maybe, just maybe, he'd forgotten about that. But then, it wasn't really that easy to forget that your brother was trying to kill you. "How do you know?" She asked, trying to avoid his eyes and hide the fact that her voice was shaking.

Halt just looked at her for a moment. He knew that she understood perfectly, but he also knew that she didn't want to admit it. He sighed, and then whispered, "He hasn't got much time, Caitlyn. Father is dying; surely you know that."

Caitlyn swallowed hard and nodded.

Halt continued, "Soon, the crown will be passed down, to-" he choked on the last word, and had to close his eyes before he could finish. "to me," he said with difficulty. He opened his eyes to look at Caitlyn. "But if Ferris has anything to say about it, it won't be me that the crown goes to." If possible, Halt's voice grew even quieter. "Believe you me, Caitlyn, he has plenty to say about it, and the only way he's going to say it is in blood."

Finally, she looked up at him, expecting an expression of anger. Instead, she was met by the saddest gaze she'd seen in a long time.

"Something has to give," Halt told her.

Before she could stop herself, Caitlyn screamed at him, "But why does it have to be you?" As soon as she said it, her hand shot up to her mouth and her eyes widened in surprise at her own candor. There was a tense silence as she gathered her wits, then she continued with all the pent-up anxiety she'd been feeling for the past several months. "Why can't it be _him_, for just this once, Halt? He's tramped all over you like some sort of mutt your entire life! What will it take until you finally make it stop? Like it or not, Halt, you _are _the Crown Prince, and this is your _life _we're talking about! Why can't you let someone help you? Why can't you _tell_ someone? Why can't you just… Just… _Do _something?" She was practically shrieking.

Halt had moved the empty coffee tray, and moved next to her while she was yelling. He cut off her string of angry words and gently grabbed her by the shoulders.

"I _am_ going to do something, Cait." His voice was firm; disciplinary, even, but the use of her childhood nickname let her know that he wasn't angry with her. He waited to see that she had calmed down, and then said, "I'm going to talk to him. Carefully. Father has made plans for us to go salmon fishing tomorrow – some ploy to force us into each others' company, I'm sure – and I'm planning to talk to him then. Alone. Reason this whole mess out."

"What will you say?"

"I'm going to give him my personal assurance of abdication. I've made no secret of the fact that I have no desire to be king. If I willingly hand him the crown with my blessing, what objection can he possibly raise?" Halt explained. Obviously, he'd thought this whole thing through previously.

Caitlyn wanted to believe that it would work, but there was one serious flaw in Halt's plan: "He's _Ferris,_" she said. "If there isn't an excuse under the sun to help him, he'll find one under the moon." Caitlyn looked at her brother bleakly.

Halt sighed and stiffened his jaw. He'd thought of that, too, but he really didn't have much of a choice. This was the best –no, _only- _solution he'd been able to come up with, and so he had to keep some optimism as he planned it. Optimism wasn't Halt's forte, but under the circumstances, he had no other choice.

"I know, Cait." Halt said, eventually. "He's Ferris. He'll resent me no matter what. But right now, all I have left is to hope on hope that there's something in him that will respect his brother's word – no matter how much he hates that brother." Halt sighed again, feeling a brief sense of dread wash over him in the familiar form of his own cynical mind. "Do you have any better recommendations?" Halt asked, not sarcastically.

Caitlyn stared out the window for a moment. "No, I don't." She said in a small, helpless voice.

Halt nodded, expecting such an answer. Brother and sister sat in silence for a while, each dwelling on the coming storm over the crown, each taking just a small comfort in each others' presence. Halt unobtrusively moved closer to his sister and took her hand in his own, and she leaned into him gently. Though neither of them had spoken of it directly, since they'd uncovered Ferris' scheme against Halt's life, their relationship had taken on the sense that their days were numbered. They treasured each moment together; no time together could be too long or too dull. Although neither of them were resigned to an eventuality of Halt's assassination, both were sensible enough to recognize the possibility, and both prepared themselves for it in their own way. In Halt's case, little affections like sitting together in silent company were enough to communicate his concern and love. Caitlyn, ever attuned to her brother's odd personality, took in the small gestures with as much meaning and gravity as Halt intended them to be, not small in measure.

After a timeless moment together, Halt solemnly drew himself up and blinked away the mesmerizing effect of the rainstorm. "You should get to bed." He told Caitlyn in the way he had when she was little. She smiled at him.

"You too." She couldn't say much else around the lump in her throat. Every night, she went to bed wondering if she'd see him again in the morning. If he sensed her intense emotions, he didn't let her know.

"Good night, Cait." He said, laying a kiss to her forehead in a once rare, now routine gesture. Caitlyn merely nodded, gave him a small smile, and headed off to the door that led to her room.

He watched her go before turning to his own bed. He was very aware of the fact that Caitlyn sometimes saw him as a dead man walking - occasionally, he was inclined to think likewise – but he couldn't indulge such pessimistic conclusions just yet. Halt had put up with a lot in his life, mostly for the sake of his parents and his father's throne. But if Ferris thought he was going to go out soundly into the night without a word in edgewise, he was sadly mistaken. Halt was quiet, it was true. But his quiet nature was only outdone by his stubbornness and determination, and a threat on his life wasn't about to change that.

Halt was a fighter. After seventeen years of silence, this Prince finally had something to say.

* * *

Next chapter, Halt finally leaves his homeland.

Read and review, please!


	9. Ultimatum

The following morning, Halt rose with a determined but somber countenance, ate his breakfast in silence, and went to dress appropriately for a day on the water fishing with his brother. Though it should have been a trivial, if not casual occasion, Halt felt a weight of dread on his chest over the impending confrontation with his brother. He hardly said a word as Caitlyn handed him a packed lunch for later that afternoon. After a moment, he looked down at her, wondering if he should say something. She answered the thought for him, launching herself at him for a tight embrace that was held just longer than was necessary. He returned the hug and mustered one of his special smiles for her as they moved away from each other.

"Good luck," she told him. He nodded. This may just be a salmon fishing trip, but considering the fact that Ferris wished to kill him and they would be all alone, Halt knew it could become something far more sinister. He'd need all the luck he could get.

* * *

The silence was agonizing. They'd said hello to each other through a series of ambiguous grunts at the outset of their trip, but not a word since then. Even Halt, who normally loved the quiet, was growing uneasy in the tense silence. Halt could feel Ferris' eyes on his back, darting over from the other side of the small boat they shared. He refused to return the look.

To make matters worse, neither of them had gotten a bite the entire trip. Not one single fish. So not only was the silence agonizingly tense, but agonizingly _boring_ as well.

Halt mentally fretted over what he should say to Ferris, whenever he got the chance. He knew he had to say _something_; as Caitlyn had pointed out already, this was his _life_ that they were talking about. If he didn't reveal his intentions to Ferris soon, he would be forfeiting his life. But what would he say? _How _would he say it? Was there a chance of Ferris snapping and attacking him? Halt didn't have the answers to any of these questions, but he did know one thing.

He couldn't take this darned silence anymore.

"Have you heard any word of father, recently?" Halt attempted a conversational tone. He realized too late that the currently crowned monarch probably wasn't the best subject matter, especially since it was the very crown that caused the brothers so much enmity.

It took a few moments for Ferris to answer. "Apparently, he has pneumonia. They're saying it's mortal," Ferris said. Even though he was detached and rather bitter towards his father, there was a slight hint of sadness in his voice. He may not have been the best father, but he was Ferris' father nonetheless.

Halt nodded silently to himself. He felt as though if he said anything wrong, he'd be dead. Part of him wondered how close to the truth this inclination was. He didn't _think_ that Ferris knew that he knew, but he could be wrong.

"You must be happy." Ferris said unemotionally.

It took Halt a moment to answer. "What do you mean?"

Ferris turned to look at him. "You're not that dense, Halt. He has a few more days – maybe a week. You'll be King, then."

"And my father's death is supposed to make me happy? I'm not sick, Ferris."

Ferris scoffed and turned away.

Then, perhaps stupidly, Halt added, "Besides, I don't want to be king, anyway."

Ferris' eyes whipped back around to his brother, his dark irises seeming even darker in his rage. "You wouldn't, would you?" He spat, unable to withhold his anger, "Of course you wouldn't! You get everything you could possibly want and you _don't!" _ Ferris stood briefly, but the ferocity of the movement caused the boat to tip slightly, sending the younger prince back into his seat.

Halt wondered if he looked as horrified as he actually was. For a moment there, he was certain that Ferris would kill him. _It's something about his eyes,_ he thought to himself, _I can see it in his eyes. He will kill me, if he gets the chance._ However, the bloodlust in Ferris' eyes was gone just as quickly as it appeared. Ferris cleared his throat as if to recover himself.

"I'm sorry," he said tensely, attempting at congeniality, "I'm just worrisome over father's illness, I suppose." Of course, from years of experience, Halt knew that Ferris was bluffing, but he wisely made no comment.

The silence resumed after that, even more uncomfortable than before, and Halt was sure he would have a cramp in his shoulder for the fact that he was so tense. He could still feel Ferris' eyes in his back as the day wore on, but now the gaze didn't just make him uncomfortable; it made him burn with anxiety, knowing that any second, Ferris could very well plant a dagger in his back.

After what seemed like hours, as the sun hit the halfway point on its downward journey, their small boat had floated into a reedy spot in the river. The waters were deep, swift, and alive with fish, but the underwater vegetation made fishing difficult. Halt grumbled as he pulled at his line to find that it had gotten snagged in the reeds, and after several experimental tugs, he realized that it was well and truly stuck. Sighing, he stood shakily and leaned over the edge of the boat, reaching down his line to find where it had become stuck. He had nearly gotten it when he felt a sudden shove, weightlessness, then,

_SPLASH! _

Halt's ears rang with the muffled noise of his fall, and when he opened his eyes, he found his vision obscured by a cloud of bubbles. Momentarily disoriented as to which way was up, Halt reached out blindly for anything that might aid him to return to the surface. His hands grabbed seaweed and reeds, and he turned from them to what was, hopefully, the surface of the water. He spat out water as he emerged, and in his foggy vision, could see Ferris in the boat about a metre away. Ferris lowered an oar to him as Halt swam towards the boat, and Halt reached out for it. Just before his fingers could brush the wood, however, Ferris withdrew the oar, raised it high, and brought it down violently on his brother's shoulder.

_Crack!_Halt screamed as his right shoulder erupted in pain. He was underwater again, and in his agony and surprise, tried to take a breath. Water burned in his throat where only air should have had passage, and he thought, for one long, terrible moment, that he was going to drown. The river current had him at its mercy, pulling him this way and pushing him that, sweeping his feet out from under him and pounding his ears to drive him to confusion. Paddling blindly with his good arm and praying to God that he would somehow survive, Halt tried to find his way to the surface. He had never really pondered what it might be like to drown, but it turned out to be a much slower process that he would have thought. The only sound he could hear was the swell of the currents around him and the frantic beating of his own heart. His chest ached, his mouth itched, and his lips had gone numb. Just after he caught a glimpse of blessed, watery daylight, his vision started to waver. Fueled by a desperate need to breath, he mustered strength he didn't have and pushed up off the bottom of the river.

He couldn't remember ever having taken a breath that hurt so much and tasted so sweet. His lungs burned with residual moisture and his shoulder was agony itself, but Halt was alive, and that was a relief in itself. As his vision cleared, he could see a patch of bulrush a few metres away and knew that there must be a bank just beyond them. He kicked and paddled with his good arm, biting back a scream of pain as his had to wrench his injured shoulder back and forth to move towards safety.

After what seemed to Halt a swim through hell, he pulled himself up onto the bank and collapsed on the sand. He screamed, then, as he fell on his shoulder, and coughed up water.

"Halt! Are you alright? Cúchulain's spear, I'm so sorry, the boat was swaying, I didn't know I'd hit you,"

Halt looked blearily up to his brother, who was well and dry, jogging along the shoreline. Through dripping curls, Halt could see the look of concern in his brother's eyes. But Halt knew Ferris well enough to know when he was acting.

"I couldn't find you for a long time there – I though you must have been swept away! Thank God you're okay, Halt." Ferris came near to him. "Your shoulder's all banged up – did you hit it on a rock? Oh, it's bad. Come on, we'll get you back to the castle." Ferris reached out to Halt, but the elder twin recoiled suddenly.

"No!" Halt roared, kicking at Ferris' extended hand, "You did this!"

"Halt, I didn't mean to-"

"Liar!" Halt yelled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd raised his voice this much. He wondered briefly if he ever had. "You sick liar! You just tried to murder me, and now you don't even have the gall to admit it!" Halt propped himself up precariously, breathing heavily. It crossed his mind that this wasn't exactly the civil confrontation that he'd been hoping for, but then, he hadn't counted on nearly dying. Ferris was watching him, utterly nonplussed. "Admit it!" Halt yelled, furious, "You want me dead! And for what? For a stupid ring of leather and stupid wooden chair! _ADMIT IT!"_

Stunned by his brother's candor and volume, Ferris could only blink dumbly. Then, with flushed cheeks, he squared his jaw and glared into eyes identical to his own. "I only want them because _you_ are not worthy to have them in the first place! You don't want them – you never have! You don't care about anyone but yourself!"

Halt was stunned, and didn't know what to say. "…_I_ don't," he looked up at his brother in disbelief. Ferris cut him off.

No! You don't! I'm working for the good of Clonmel here. A king without loyalty to his own crown is no king at all. Clonmel deserves better, Halt – better than you. Laws and birthrights are of secondary importance next to the good of the country." Ferris tilted his head up haughtily. "And if I must make a personal sacrifice to ensure the preservation of that good, then so be it."

Halt could only stare. _Personal sacrifice._That's what he was. That's what Ferris considered him to be. A deduction. A necessary loss. No more than a tick on a casualties list. Halt squinted uneasily up at his brother, and realized that Ferris truly believed what he was saying. He truly believed that murder was the way to peace, that he deserved the crown, that Halt was a danger to Clonmel.

Slowly, Halt shook his head. "You're mad, Ferris. You truly are." He said quietly. Rising unsteadily to his feet, Halt used his good arm to gesture widely. "Fine. You want the crown? Take it! Have it! I don't care. I don't want it – I never have. So take it, _your majesty,_and protect your country!"

Ferris stood his ground silently, his eyes twitching rapidly as if he was dumfounded, utterly unbelieving that his brother would willing forfeit the crown. "No," he said quietly, "You're trying to trick me,"

Halt looked to the skies helplessly. "No I'm not!" He yelled, "For once in your life, Ferris, just _listen to me!_ You know I don't want the crown, you know I don't want to be king, but you," Halt shook his head, his eyebrows dipping wearily. "All you want is the crown. It's all you've ever wanted. You want it more than anyone – especially me. Lord above, Ferris, you're willing to kill me for it when I don't even want it in the first place, just take it!" Halt was breathing heavily, his face wet and flushed and utterly pleading. "Please, just take it and leave me be." In a last attempt, Halt said, "I'll leave here – leave Clonmel, Hibernia, if I must, just don't kill me, and don't hurt anyone else. Father is already on his deathbed, Ferris, please don't give our mother two bodies to mourn. _Please._" Halt couldn't find any more words, and was at the beginning of what he knew would be a devastating adrenaline crash. This would have to be the ultimatum.

"Just take it, Ferris. For the love of Clonmel itself, just take it and don't let anyone else get in your way. Least of all me."

For several long moments, they stared at each other, and Halt watched the gears turn in Ferris' mind. He would never be able to fully comprehend what his brother was thinking, but he'd trained himself to recognize the patterns and signs, the little glances, the twitches of his eyebrows. Watching them now, Halt's shoulders slumped.

Without saying a word, Ferris turned and stormed up the beach, leaving his brother soaked, exhausted, and injured, swaying unsteadily on the sand. But the pain on Halt's face had nothing to do with his injuries – it had everything to do with the glance that Ferris had given him just before he'd left. That one last glance, barely half a second long, so fleeting and yet so deep in meaning, told Halt all he needed to know about what Ferris was thinking.

With a dead feeling, Halt realized that Ferris would never let this vendetta go. And as Clonmel's crown prince posed with a rising threat to his crown and his life, Halt had two options: he could kill his younger twin, or he could run away from Dun Kilty, out of Clonmel, out of Hibernia itself, the only land he'd ever known. Halt closed his eyes and wondered how he would explain his decision to Caitlyn.

When he opened them again to find his way home, Halt was met by a sky of orange and pink burning over a rocky coastline. As he took his first step back towards Dun Kilty, he wondered how many more Hibernian sunsets he'd see in his life, and if any other countries in the world made the evening sky look quite so beautiful.

Somehow, he didn't think that they could.

* * *

Okay, he didn't leave, like I promised he would, but he will next chapter. (I _promise_– in fact, I'm writing the next chapter right now)

Oh, and for anyone who is wondering, Cúchulain is a hero of Irish mythology whose weapon of choice was a spear. I figured if Greeks swear by Zeus and Nordics by Thor, the Irish (or Hibernian, as it were) might just swear by Cúchulain. I suppose a god or goddess would have been more fitting, but I'm not completely savvy on the rather muddled world of Irish mythology.

Anyway. Read and Review, please!


	10. It'll Be Alright

Halt had lost his balance when retrieving his line and fallen into the river, after which the currents slammed him into a rather large rock. Ferris, unable to locate his brother, had nobly returned to Dun Kilty for help, in which time Halt had climbed ashore and made his way back to the castle.

At least, this was the story that they told the infirmary when Halt staggered through the gates soaking wet, blood running down his cheek, with a right clavicle that was broken cleanly in two.

Many hours and questions later, Halt lay on his bed in his dimly lit room. The healers had left him, though they said they would come by every so often to make sure he was doing well. They'd left him plenty of water and extra pain medicine tablets, should he need them. His shoulder had been set and wrapped with resin-soaked cloth that formed a semi-solid cast to keep the broken bone in place. His face remained in a contortion of pain even after they'd given him strong pain medication, and the pain only deepened when his sister came to see him.

When she'd walked into the room, Halt found he couldn't look her in the eye. Now that he'd made his choice, he just couldn't bear to see her face.

"I don't believe a word of it, Halt," Caitlyn's voice was shaky, "Not for a moment. You never loose your balance, and Ferris has never been 'noble'. What really happened?" She set down the candle she'd been carrying on his bedside table, and sat down on his bed, her eyes boring into him.

"He hit me," Halt said quietly, still not looking at her. "he pushed me overboard and when I came up for air, he broke my shoulder with an oar."

A shocked silence followed, and after a moment, Halt added, "I thought he was actually trying to help me, at first. I guess I shouldn't have been fooled."

Caitlyn gulped. "He tried to kill you. Again." She paused, blinking rapidly, "Did you... Speak with him?"

"If that's what you call it. We argued." Halt shook his head. "I don't think I've ever yelled at him like that before."

"Well if you haven't, he deserved it. What did you say?"

"I told him I'd abdicate - I told him that so long as he didn't hurt me or anyone else, he could have the crown with my blessing."

"And?"

It took several moments for him to answer. "He thinks I'm trying to trick him." Halt looked sadly up at his sister. "He won't stop, Caitlyn."

She looked frantic. "No. no, he has to - you could talk to him again, he could-"

"Caitlyn, I _tried._ I've been trying. I said every word I could possibly say to make him change his mind, and it hasn't worked in the slightest. Our brother is _mad,_ Caitlyn. He honestly thinks he's doing the country - and you, for that matter - a _favor _by murdering me. He thinks I'm no more than an inconvenience." Halt shook his head. "Anyone who thinks like that is beyond the point of reason. There's nothing I can do to dissuade him."

At this point, Caitlyn had a vague inkling of what Halt was getting at. But she hated the mere notion so much, she didn't even consider it, much less speak it. A long silence ensued, before she finally asked, with a tightened throat,

"So what do you do, Halt?"

"I have two choices. Either I kill my own brother, or I run."

Caitlyn remained silent, trying to pretend that her lips weren't quivering.

"Caitlyn," Halt told her quietly, "I am not killing my own brother."

She hadn't expected him to. She closed her eyes and suddenly there were tears and fiercely quivering chin that she had to work around.

"Where will you go?" She asked thickly.

Halt shook his head. "I'm not sure. I'll have to plan it out. At most, we have a week - that's how long the healers expect father to live," he said with difficulty, "after that, Ferris will be at my throat with a dagger. I'll have to plan my escape before that happens."

Caitlyn was nodding through tears, her mind unable to accept the inevitability that Halt would have to leave Clonmel in fear for his life. She rubbed at her nose and tried desperately to control herself, but she couldn't speak. If she had looked, she might have seen that her brother, her taciturn, composed, serious brother was fighting off tears of his own. Careful of his broken shoulder, Halt leaned forward and wrapped his arm around Caitlyn, drawing her into his good shoulder. After that, she lost it. She sobbed into his shoulder for what could have been minutes or hours, wishing that things weren't the way they were, but knowing she couldn't do anything to change them. When she drew back, she could see the tear tracks on his own face.

"I don't have a choice, Cait."

"I know," She said miserably, taking a handkerchief from a pocket, "But I wish you did."

Halt nodded sadly. "So do I."

They delved into quiet companionship after that. It was dark out, and after checking on him one last time, the healers left Halt to his rest. Her eyes still red and puffy, Caitlyn climbed over to lay on the bed next to her brother. In a sort of mechanical reaction to what was happening, Halt and Caitlyn reverted back to behavior that might have defined them years ago, when Caitlyn was much younger, more frightened, and much more used to open affection. She was curled up against him, he was stroking her hair. It reminded the young princess of times when they were younger, times that now seemed ages away, when Halt had been the rock-solid center of Caitlyn's existence.

Their father had never been the interactive type, and Ferris didn't spend much time with his siblings, so Halt had become both older brother and father to Caitlyn as she grew up. In recent years she'd grown stronger and more independent, but now that life threatened to rip them apart, Caitlyn found that she wanted it all back. She longed for those lost nights when she would wake in the night to a great crash of thunder, those days when the roar of the seas seemed to consume the air, those times when their parents' yelling was too much to handle. Because in those times, she could tiptoe her way across the hall and run to her brother, and no matter how tired he was, no matter how grumpy he acted, no matter how mean or uncaring or rash he could have been to her, (and sometimes was) he would always clear a place for her under the covers and let her stay with him through the storm. He might gripe about being woken up, he might scowl at her when she shook his shoulder to wake him, but he'd always hold her tight and assure her, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that everything would be alright. The thunder would stop, the waves would calm, and even the furious king would eventually fall asleep.

Now, Caitlyn was facing the biggest, most terrifying storm of her young life and her brother wasn't there to comfort her, because the storm had swept him away. He was in the heart of the tumult, and she was left standing in the rain with nothing but a few handfuls of angry water. And she hadn't the slightest idea of what she would do. Silently, she let more tears fall down her cheeks and nuzzled herself deeper into her brother's tunic, as if proximity would brand his memory further into her mind.

Halt could guess the direction of her thoughts, and instinctively tightened his arm around her. He didn't say anything, because he felt that there was nothing to say. After a very long while, when both their eyelids finally began to droop, Halt told her gently,

"It'll be alright, Cait, I promise." He'd told her that countless times when they were younger. Back then, she'd hug him close and believe every word that came out of his mouth, but now, she wept freely, because she knew that they weren't true.

* * *

The first thing he heard was the ringing. Then, Caitlyn.

"Wake up, Halt," She was shaking him, "_Céilí mór sé_, wake up!"

Halt opened his eyes wide and sat up. He only had time to register the fact that it was the middle of the night before his sister shoved a glass of water and a medicine tablet into his hand. "Eat this. God knows you'll need it." She rose quickly from the bed and darted across the room. He could hear her throwing his wardrobe open, though why she would do such a thing was beyond him.

"Caitlyn, why are you-"

He was interrupted by a deafening bell, a long, deep toll that Halt hadn't heard since a night, now eight years ago, when his uncle had passed away. It could only mean one thing.

"Father," He breathed, his eyes drawn towards where he knew his father would be.

"Dead," Caitlyn told him as she shoved clothes into a leather bag, "They started ringing the knell a few minutes ago. All of Clonmel will know before the morn. Middle of the night or not, Halt, they'll come to you with your father's crown, and Ferris will be racing to get here first. You have to leave tonight."

Halt was dumbstruck. He had never been close to his father, but it was strange to think of him as truly gone - the figure who had guarded Halt from the crown he dreaded all his life had suddenly disappeared, leaving only-

"Ferris will be here any moment, Halt, come on!" Caitlyn shoved travel clothes in his face and tossed the bag at his feet. Not bothering with privacy, she helped him dress around his injured shoulder and put a cloak on him. She then grabbed his left hand and dragged him out of the room, grabbing the small bottle of pain medication as she left. They hurried down a back stairway and into the armory. Quietly, Caitlyn began to cross the floor, to check that no one was there. She signaled Halt to follow. They were almost to the castle's stock of longswords, when:

"Halt! What goes?" A voice called out.

For a moment, Halt thought that the guard had recognized him, but then realized that 'Halt' must've meant an order to stop. Only, he recognized the guard's voice.

"Quinn?" Halt ventured. Caitlyn tried to shush him, but then a young man stepped into the moonlight.

"Halt? Caitlyn? What are you doing here?" Quinn was a young man, not yet twenty, but was already keen with a longblade and, as the son of Dun Kilty's head battle warden, trained to guard his post well. But he had grown up with the prince and princess, and now he dropped his offensive stance. "You should be with-" the man paused, wondering if he was about to cross a personal boundary with the royal family members, "with your father."

Caitlyn rushed forward and grabbed the young guard by his collar. "Quinn, you have to listen to me carefully, and you have to promise not to talk about this to _anyone, _understand?" He nodded demurely, and she continued. "Right now my mother and all the royal advisers will be looking for Halt, to crown him, but they're not the only ones. Ferris has gotten it into his head that he should have Halt's crown. He means to murder Halt, and he's coming for him now." Quinn threw a shocked look at Halt, and the prince nodded. "Halt is leaving Clonmel. I'm asking you to help him." Quinn just looked at her, trying to catch up with what he was being told.

"You're abdicating?" He turned to Halt.

"One way or other, Ferris will be king," Halt said. "I didn't want it to begin with, and I'd rather not die for something I don't want. I have to run."

Quinn squared his shoulders. "Then let's get you going. There's no time to lose."

"You realize, Quinn, that by helping me, you are defying the man who is now your king?" Halt asked, looking the other boy in the eye.

The tall guard shrugged. "Well, he hasn't a crown on his head just yet, so as of now, you've as fair a claim to my loyalty as he has. Though, between you and I, I'd have stuck out with you regardless." He turned to Caitlyn. "Get your brother armed. I'll make sure no one finds you here." He rounded the corner and returned to his post.

"He's a good man," Halt said quietly.

"Aye, and a smart one," Caitlyn said as she picked out a shortsword and belt. She knew Halt didn't have the strength to wield a longsword with his shoulder, so she chose a lightweight weapon instead. "He knows a real leader when he sees one. Pity there won't be one on the throne, now." As she came near to him to buckle the belt around his waist, he realized that she was crying. "I hope you won't need this," she said. "Here," she handed him his small bag of belongings. Halt slung it over his good shoulder, and shuffled his bad arm where it rested in its sling.

"Caitlyn," he began, unsure of what he could possibly say in this situation.

She shook her head. "So much for a week of planning." she sniffed. "Do you have any idea where you'll go?"

"No. Wherever the ships are going these days, I suppose. I'm sorry, Caitlyn."

Now she was weeping in earnest. "I'll miss you," she whimpered.

Halt's eyes were watering. "You too, Cait." They hugged then, more fiercely than they ever had. As Caitllyn clung to him as though he was her only hold on life, the full ramifications of this moment slammed into Halt like a ton of bricks. He knew he had to say something.

"Caitlyn, listen to me," he pulled away, "I don't know where I'm going or how long I'll be there, and I know you feel like you're going to be all alone when I leave, but I want you to know that I'll be back. I'll find you, and I'll come back for you." He put his hand to her cheek. "Do you remember when we were little, Cait? And you'd come hide in my room every time there was a storm?"

She closed her eyes against a sob. "I remember."

"It's just like that," Halt told her softly, "It's scary out there, and noisy, and it feels like the world is about to end, but I promise you this, it will be okay."

"But you're not going to be here," Caitlyn moaned, "You've always been here, and now you're not. Everything turned out alright when you were here with me, but now you're leaving, and what will happen to me now?

"No," Halt shook his head and brought her close to kiss her brow. "No, that's not the point. The storm didn't turn out alright because I was here, I was here to tell you that the storm _would _turn out alright." He raised both hands, however painfully, to grasp her face close to his. "And now that I'm leaving, that doesn't mean that you won't be okay, it just means that I won't be here to tell you so on every stormy night." Halt looked her in the eye, and his tone was authoritative when he spoke. "Caitlyn Annora O'Carrick, you listen to me and you listen carefully: You _will_ be okay, this storm _will_ end, and I _will_ come back for you, even if I'm not here to say it. You are my sister and I love you, Caitlyn. I want you to remember that for as long as we're apart, understand?"

She sobbed, but nodded her head in his hands. "I understand." She hugged him again, sniffing back her tears. "I love you too, Halt."

"Ferris is coming this way, Halt, if you're going to go, now's the time." Quinn's voice said from the doorway. Halt nodded and gave Caitlyn's face a pat.

"I'll see you again. I promise."

She nodded, and went to stand by Quinn as Halt walked out of the armory, under the cover of the shadows. After a few steps, he stopped and turned around.

"Quinn?" He called,

"Yes?" The young guard stepped foward.

Halt looked into Quinn's honest green eyes, then to Caitlyn. "Look after her for me. And Caitlyn," He paused and looked at her meaningfully, his eyes saying what his voice could not. He didn't speak, but nodded once at her, then turned and walked away.

Caitlyn put a hand to her mouth to keep herself from crying more. Quinn would have tried to comfort her, but at that moment, a voice rang out across the yard.

"Guards!" It sounded like Halt, but Quinn knew it wasn't.

"We have to get out of here," Caitlyn said.

"No time - I'll take care of this, you hide." When the princess hesitated, he urged her back into the dark corners of the armory. "Go!"

She concealed herself just in time. Ferris came into view with two footmen in tow. Quinn dutifully came to attention. "Your Highness," he saluted.

"That's 'your Majesty', now." Ferris said haughtily.

"Sir?" Quinn looked genuinely baffled, even though he understood the situation perfectly.

"My brother has forfeited his right to the throne. He's run away. You're going to help me find him." Ferris looked Quinn up and down. "You're O'Shannon's boy, aren't you? A good tracker?"

"My father trained me, your... Majesty."

Ferris nodded in approval. "Good. Come with me. You'll help me track him down. He can't have gone very far - the southern woods are the only place he could be hiding. Now," Ferris turned and called at one of the footmen. "Bryan! My horse!"

As Ferris left to the stables, Caitlyn rushed out of the shadows and grabbed Quinn's arm before he could leave.

"You can't, Quinn!"

"And I won't," he assured her, "Halt headed southeast along the coast - I'll lead Ferris straight through the forest."

"If Ferris learns you lied to him, he'll kill you, or have you banished."

"If I don't lie to him, your brother's flight will be in vain, and I'll have broken my word. I don't like breaking my word, Caitlyn."

She regarded him for a moment, wishing she could be of some help in their situation. Eventually, she nodded. "You're a brave man, Quinn O'Shannon. Thank you." On an impulse, she stood on her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "But for God's sake, don't let Ferris find out. A man who dies a hero is still dead."

He smiled sheepishly at her, his cheeks scarlet. "I'll try, princess. Now go, before Ferris comes back."

Caitlyn fled up the stairs and back to her room. She flung open the shutters to her window and looked out over the expansive blackness of the forest. Halt was in there. Somewhere out there, her brother was running for his life, and she couldn't do anything to help him.

_Everything will be alright,_ he'd told her.

Caitlyn sat down on the windowsil, her eyes never leaving the forest. "Please be right, Halt, please be right."

* * *

A/N: GAH! He's STILL not out yet! Well, he's out, but not really gone. This is taking much longer than I'd originally planned. Let's see if I can't speed things up.

I suppose that I should have introducted Quinn way earlier than this to give him more character development - he will be popping up in this story frequently as the plot progresses.

Also, due to computer problems related with a rather annoying lightning storm, I have been deprived of Microsoft Word and thus spellcheck. I like to think myself a decent speller, but if you pick up any mistakes or typos while readint this, PLEASE let me know, so I can fix them. Thanks!

PLEASE read and review! Reviews are love. I love reviews as much as Tug loves apples.


	11. Escape and Capture

Everything had been going rather well until they'd brought out the hounds. Abandoning the relatively tame hunting dogs that would normally aid the authorities on a manhunt, Ferris had opted to bring out the warhounds straightaway. Quinn O'Shannon cursed under his breath when he saw them. He'd seen the huge, shaggy wolfhounds of his homeland on many occasions before, dotting the cattle fields and standing guard on many a farmhouse or homestead. These hounds, however, were different. Where their common relatives were placid, gentle giants, these dogs were snarling, titanic wolves that knew only two things in life: the hunt, and the kill. If they did find Halt, they would tear him to pieces before Quinn could even shout a warning. But the young warden had meant what he'd said to Caitlyn, and he had no intentions of letting his friend and his prince (for Quinn could never really think of Ferris as king - not completely) die by his own error.

"Your Majesty," he mustered out the title with some effort, "if you would, hold the dogs back to the flank. I can't track him if the dogs ruin the trail."

Ferris didn't flinch. "They'll sniff him out."

"They aren't trained for that - they follow human direction, not their own noses." It wasn't entirely true, because all dogs had keener noses than Quinn did. If Ferris wasn't the over-puffed royal that he was, he might have known that. Luckily, Quinn was good at bluffing and Ferris was just a bit too ignorant around animals.

"Fine." Ferris said uncertainly, "lead on, but when we find him, don't stop me from sending the dogs out front."

"Yes, milord." Quinn gulped. He would have to bluff his way through this well, he knew, and he only prayed that Ferris would believe it. _God help me,_ he thought, and plunged into the forest. Behind him, Ferris and a small party of warriors followed, the hounds pulling against their leashes. Quickly, trying to make it seem as real as possible, Quinn found Halt's 'trail', and jogged along a brush-filled path. "This way!" He called, leading the group dead south. Halt would be far east by now, along the coastline. With any luck, Quinn would avoid Halt's trail entirely and Ferris would be none the wiser when they failed to catch him. At least, that's what he hoped.

* * *

Halt, meanwhile, had only made it about a kilometre and a half before he had to take a break. His shoulder made walking painful, and he was sure that if Ferris didn't kill him, his shoulder would be the death of him. Cold wind swept upwards from the waves as they crashed against the rocky coast, and in the dark, Halt paused as he realized where he'd ended up. He hadn't meant to, but his feet had taken him straight to Archer's Point.

Looking this way and that, Halt quietly lowered himself into the concealed little den and sat gratefully back against the cool earth. He could hear the ceiling's collection of trinkets jangle in the wind, and he raised his good hand to brush along the artifacts dotted around the small hideaway. His hand rested upon a small cloth bag, and he opened it. Inside were several things - a wooden top, a pencil, an arrowhead. Among them was a folded piece of paper. Halt took it out and carefully unfolded it.

_Freedom_. Pencil Caitlyn and Pencil Halt looked just as happy as they did when Caitlyn had drawn them all those months ago, and Halt sighed sadly as he realized just how far reality had strayed from that dreamy scene. Coming to a decision, Halt took out his pack and found the bottle of pain medicine that Caitlyn had given him. He emptied its contents into the cloth bag, and put Caitlyn's sketch into the bottle before corking it securely. Now he could be confident that his sister's gift wouldn't be stained by any stray water or rain.

After several minutes of rest, Halt looked sadly about his childhood retreat one last time, then drew himself up, brushed himself off, and left. He walked for another half hour along the coast line, searching the dark waters for the port town that he knew was only a kilometre or so away. He almost smiled when he saw the the lighthouse as it stood watch on a rock not too far from the wharf. Setting his sights on its warm orange flame, Halt adjusted his pack and wondered where the ships were headed these days. He took two sturdy steps towards his destination. That's when he heard the wolves.

The warhounds weren't wolves, not strictly. In fact, they were larger than wolves, and trained specially in the art of bloodthirsty ruthlessness. Quinn got a little nervous every time one of those huge canines came to close to him.

"Well, where is he headed?" Ferris asked irritably. After three quarters of an hour, he was becoming restless and angry. Quinn was doing his best to keep him satiated.

"Dead south, your majesty." Quinn said for the third time that evening. His brow was sweating heavily. He wondered if he should change the direction up a little, but Ferris didn't seem to notice.

"Surely we're getting close. He has a broken shoulder, for God's sake; he's crippled. Why haven't we spotted him yet?"

Quinn shrugged as he concentrated on the nonexistant trail. "I'm not sure, your majesty. I'm truly sorry-"

At that moment, one, then two, then all of the warhounds exploded in barking and howling and whining. One of their handlers fought to keep the largest one at bay. "They've got a whiff of him, sire, he's this way!"

"Are you sure it's not just some deer, General?" Ferris seemed unconvinced.

"Aye, majesty - they're trained to hunt men, not deer. They've caught a scent of him alright."

Quinn's heart sank when he realized the man was right. He'd failed. His one job had been to keep Ferris away from Halt, and now he'd failed. The hounds had caught scent of Halt - now the runaway prince was as good as dead. Ferris cast an angry glance at Quinn, as if to say, _Why have you misled me?_ and for a horrible moment, the young warden thought that the prince would strike him, but then Ferris turned his horse away and signaled to the dog handlers.

"Give them their heads, and we'll see where they take us. As for you, O'Shannon," Ferris looked at Quinn, "You stick to the rear. If the dogs find him first, this could get messy."

And of course, that was exactly what Quinn was afraid of.

"I'm sorry, Halt," he whispered as he hung back behind the group, every bray of the hounds driving the stake of despair further into his heart.

* * *

If Halt thought that _walking_ was bad, he hadn't even dared to imagine what _running _would feel like. It was all he could do to keep from screaming as pain shot through his shoulder with every step. Behind him, human shouts and canine snarls rose in volume as they drew nearer. Trees whizzed by as Halt ran noisily past, his cheeks pink and breath heavy. He ran, and ran, and ran, and that lighthouse in the distance seemed to be growing further and further away. When his body threatened to give in, Halt did scream, drawing on his strength reserves to press on. He was just out of the treeline and in view of the small town when the first guard saw him.

"There he is!" the man shouted. Halt's heart jumped, and he attempted to run faster. Once he reached the town, he dodged buildings and detoured through alleyways in attempt to lose his pursuer. He heart shouts, and then the deepest, loudest, most horrible string of barking he'd ever heard, and he knew that he was doomed. No one could out run war hounds, especially short, half-dead princes like himself. When the barking grew loud enough, Halt turned just in time to see the huge dog bound into view, its ivory teeth flashing. Halt drew his shortsword with his unpracticed left hand. He gulped, knowing he didn't have a chance. Those berserk canine eyes shone in the light, and Halt considered that they would be the last thing he'd see before he was ripped to shreds.

Suddenly, with a great shout, a tall figure jumped from the low ceiling of one of the neighboring buildings and brought a shimmering longsword down on the attacking dog with a sickening _thud_. The animal shrieked and fell to the ground.

"There's more coming," Quinn told a stunned Halt, "the ships are just around that way, to the docks - go now!" He turned to face an oncoming wolfhound, who seemed to not notice the blade in the warrior's hands. Quinn cast a look back at Halt, and when he saw that the prince hadn't budged, he yelled, "Run, Halt, just _run!_"

Halt took Quinn's advice and didn't stick around for the ensuing battle. He ran towards where he thought the docks where, and tried to check his heavy breathing as he sneaked along the boardwalk. As he rounded the portmaster's office, Halt's heart nearly stopped. Ferris was standing there, his sword drawn at the ready, his eyes searching the area for something - Halt guessed it was him. Halt pressed himself up against a stack of crates and hoped he hadn't been spotted. He listened carefully, knowing that if Ferris found him here, he'd be finished. Normally, Halt was the superior warrior, but with a broken shoulder he would be helpless against his brother.

"No sign of him, milord!" A guard approached Ferris.

"Well don't tell me that - find him!" Ferris growled and stormed down the docks. Halt let out a small breath and glanced upward. Next to him, a huge cargo ship was moored and waiting for her crew. He glanced in Ferris' direction, saw that he wasn't looking, and took his chance. Halt took hold of the small rope ladder that led up to the ship's deck and began to climb. His shoulder made this difficult, and for few moments, Halt was sure that Ferris would see him. But then, he fell rather loudly onto the deck.

"What was that?" it was Ferris.

"I didn't hear anything, Sire," a guard said.

"It was coming from that ship. Check it out."

"But Sir, I didn't-"

"Do it!"

Halt's eyes widened in horror as he heard the heavy footsteps walking up the boarding plank. Then,

"Your Majesty, over here! I think I've found him!" a familiar voice called.

_God bless you, Quinn O'Shannon._ Halt closed his eyes and felt his face drain with relief when the footsteps of both Ferris and his guards were gone. Quietly, Halt crawled across the deck and found that the stern had already been packed with cargo - crates roped down with giant cords and hooks. After some struggling, he opened one of the crates and was pleased to find a stack of fleeces inside. He crawled inside and closed the lid, leaving it open just a crack. He didn't particularly like the idea of falling asleep inside a box of sheep skins on a strange ship, but Halt really couldn't keep himself awake for very much longer. He curled on his side and listened for Ferris, but thankfully his brother never came. After an hour of listening, Halt was relatively sure that he was safe. He wondered what ship he was on and where it was headed. He wondered if he'd ever see the Hibernian shoreline again. He wondered what Caitlyn was doing at that moment. Then, he fell asleep.

The next morning, it didn't take very long for Halt's day to go sour.

"Oy! Captain! We've got a stowaway!" A heavily accented man speared Halt in the side with a stick and dragged him up out of the crate heedless of his injured shoulder. "You scum! What are you doing on this ship? Speak!"

Halt only moaned when the man hit his broken shoulder.

"Calm down, Darrek," a man walked over. He was tan and harsh-looking, and looked anything but calm. "Well," he asked Halt directly, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I, I..." Halt began. He knew he couldn't tell them the truth, but, what to tell them?

"Hurry it up lad, or I may just feed you to the waves."

Halt gulped. "I was running on the docks. There were dogs chasing me." It wasn't a lie, that was for sure.

The captain looked unconvinced. "And your shoulder?"

"I broke it earlier this week when I fell off the roof of my mother's home." Now that wasn't so truthful. Halt only hoped it sounded believable.

The captain shook his head. "Defenseless _and_ clumsy. I take it you were hiding on my ship?"

"Yes, sir."

There was a pause. "You Hibernian?"

Halt frowned fractionally, and realized then that the mens' accents weren't the same lilting brogue that he was used to in his homeland. They seemed to strike a chord in his memory, but he couldn't quite identify them. "Yes," he said, suddenly self conscious of his own accent, "I am."

The Captain's eyes bored into his for a tense moment. "Do you speak Gaeilge?"

Halt wasn't entirely sure he liked that gleam in the man's eyes. He frowned. "Why?" He asked warily. The Captain laughed humorlessly.

"Boy, you're a stowaway on my ship, and I have a dozen men who will run you through and toss you to your watery grave at my word. Now you tell me, do you speak Gaeilge?"

Halt swallowed hard. "Yes, I have all my life." he said.

"Do it."

Halt realized that there were several pairs of eyes watching him. He took a breath, and spoke. "_Dúirt mé leat, tá mé á labhairt as gaeilge mo shaol ar fad._" He paused to look at the captain, and was unsettled by the rather pleased look on his face. That look didn't bode well, Halt thought.

"...Could be useful," the first mate was saying to someone.

"Definitely fetch a high price at the northern ports..."

"...Valuable skill, if you're smuggling across the west sea..."

The Captain smirked at the murmurs. "Enough, boys. Derrek, take this clumsy Gaeil-tongue to the brig."

Halt screamed when his injured arm was wrenched behind him and tied with his left arm. "No," he found himself saying, realizing what was happening. "You... You can't do this." He protested as they drug him below deck. All he'd wanted was freedom, and now he was being taking prisoner by a band of smugglers. The crew just laughed, and the Captain shook his head with small smile. The iron bars of the brig clanged shut in his face, and Halt could only stare. He'd narrowly escaped death only to run straight into the arms of capture and impending enslavement. What had he done wrong? More importantly, how on earth was he going to get out of here?

* * *

A/N: Surely this is a personal record for updates! I am really really excited to get this story moving right along and into Araluen! But what's this? Smugglers? Oh dearie me, whatever shall our poor Halt do?

Read and Review, please!

Once again, no spellcheck, so please let me know of any typos!


	12. Araluen

Fortunately for Halt, his ability to speak Hibernian made him valuable, and he was treated well. His shoulder was re-set after it had become jostled about by his flee from Clonmel and by the smugglers themselves, and he was given a good meal and plenty of water to drink. He was verbally jibed and picked on by the crew, but Halt could bear that. What he couldn't bear, however, was the thought of imprisonment. Here he was, an escaped prince, sitting in a brig on some lonely smuggling ship, bound for a life of enslavement.

The only thing that could distract Halt from his predicament was his stomach. Halt had never been on a long sea journey before - much less on seas so deep and treacherous - and he found, much to his dismay and embarrassment, that his stomach didn't appreciate the rocking motion of the ship. Of course, while Halt bent over the vomit bucket, greenfaced and miserable, the hardened seamen only laughed and slammed him on his good shoulder, promising that he'd get used to it in time.

But Halt didn't want to get used to it. He wanted to escape.

It was all Halt could think about for the days that he was on board that smuggler's ship. He thought and planned and thought some more, but he could never figure out a good or practical way to get escape his captors. He couldn't even dream of swimming away - even if there was land in sight, his lame arm would keep him from going anywhere but to the bottom of the ocean. He couldn't fight the captain for his ship - for one thing, Halt's shoulder made fighting impossible, and for another, he didn't know the first thing about sailing a ship. Halt couldn't promise the smugglers ransom money, either, because he wasn't a prince anymore. Halt frowned at the thought when two sailors walked by his cell.

"We'll be setting port by this time tomorrow," one of them said, "Rumor is that the west ports have a strong market for translators these days. The captain'll probably sell 'im for decent price there."

"What, and not keep him for himself?" The other asked incredulously, "No, I think the little brat's stayin' 'ere. Captain goes to Hibernia enough to need him."

"But a small, clumsy git like that? No, the Gaeil-tongue is getting his hide sold at port, I'd bet money on it."

"Ten crown?"

"Done."

Money changed hands, and Halt sighed as the walked away, letting his forehead fall agaisnt the iron bars that held him. _I have to get out of here,_ he thought.

That evening, Halt drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep below deck, and enjoyed several hours of rest. When he woke up, however, Pandemonium had erupted on the ship.

Everyone on deck was screaming and yelling orders. Water washed down into the lower deck to fill the bottom with several inches of water. Underneath him, the boat heaved violently, tossed back and forth in the waves. The roar of the waves and the unmistakable crash of lightning was deafening. Halt went to his cell door to try and see what was happening, but just as he reached the bars, the ship made a cunvulsive surge forward and upward, sending Halt sprawling against the wall, a spontaneous tidepool of water gathering about his legs.

He grunted and tried to rise, only to be knocked down again. Taking a hint, he stayed on the ground, and crawled back over to the door.

"Caiptain! Rocks ahead!"

"Hard to starboard! Hard to starboard!"

"Hold the mainstay! Half the foreyard! Hold on to it with everything ye've got, lads!"

"Buckets below! Bail the deck!"

The world was a cacophony of yells and shouting and orders thrown everywhere. Halt tried unsuccessfully to steady himself against the iron bars of his cell. His hands were still tied together, and with one of them attached to his broken and very tender shoulder, it was hard to do anything sufficiently without pain shooting up his back. He chose to sit on the ground rather than brace himself up against the door.

As he splashed back down in a puddle, a sailor came storming below deck with a bucket, and started an attempt to bail out the small pond that began forming on the floor. This went on for several mintues, but then, the top deck erupted in panic, and he abandoned his bailing bucket to join his fellow crewmen on deck. Then, with a great crash, the whole ship jolted and the timber near the bow cracked and exploded, a huge, jagged black rock tearing a gaping hole in the hull.

The water was gushing in fast - the whole floor was aflood.

"Hey!" Halt cried, unsuccessfully shaking the bars of his prison, "Down here! Help!" He kicked at the door as hard as he could, but nothing happened. He was up to his thighs in water, and he kept kicking. He knew that if that water got too high, he'd have to swim. And if he had to swim, he would drown. "Help me! Please!" Halt kicked again at the base of the door, but nothing happened. When the water rose to his waist, a crew member finally came below deck. It was the cabin boy. He came over and turned a key in the lock to Halt's cell.

"The Captain's been knocked unconscious. We're in a rockbed. The ship's going down." He swung the door open, but didn't bother help getting Halt out before he fled back to the upper deck. "Good like to you, Gaeil-tongue! If you survive this night, you'll be luckier than most!"

Halt staggered out of the cell and up the slippery ladder. The ship was tilting precariously now, its bow slowly sinking toward the black depths. Halt climbed upwards toward the stern with some difficulty from his shoulder. He would try and find something to float on, so that when the ship went under, he could-

_CRRRACK-AK, KA-POW!_

The sky suddenly turned purple, and the air hummed with energy. All at once, Halt was in the water. Around him, Halt heard men screaming and wood splintering, and he smelled a strong, sour smell like soot and nickel. Every hair, every nerve ending, every sense on Halt's body was left singed and tingling. He gasped for air and spat water as he bobbed in the angry ocean currents, looking blurrily towards the lightning-struck wreckage of the ship he'd been on. He didn't even try screaming for help, but kicked for all he was worth until he reached a sizable raft of timber and latched onto it with a vice grip. Nevermind his shoulder, he wasn't going to drown if he could help it. He drug himself halfway onto the hunk of board, and tried to breath the air normally.

Hanging on was hard in the rough seas. As the lightning flashed, Halt could make out the shapes of several downward-facing corpses, and one or two straglers like himself. Then he spotted something that he'd been sure was lost. The leather bag Caitlyn had packed for him before he left Clonmel. He supposed most of it would be soiled beyond repair by now, but he didn't care. As it floated past, he grabbed it and hugged the saggy baggage close to himself. As the lighning watched the last vestiges of the stern descend into the waves, Halt laid his head against the boards that kept him afloat, thankful to be alive - if only barely. Then, without even realizing what was happening, he fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

Martin sighed heavily as he walked toward the beach. He hadn't been expecting this when he'd come here a few days ago. He'd just come to drop in on an old colleague, and instead, he'd gotten _this._ A man could do without seeing such grotesque tragedy, he thought.

The first hunks of the ship had washed up on shore early that morning, the cracked wood fresh and the splinters sharp, and the locals knew what came next. Somewhere between breakfast and luncheon, the corpses started appearing. Hours old and waterlogged by the sea, the bodies found their way to shore one way or other, and although the gulls had already made a meal of some of them, Martin and the rest of those nearby felt obliged to check each one for any possible - if however unlikely - signs of life.

Martin looked sympathetically towards his apprentice where he was doubled over behind a bush. He'd given the boy some fresh water to drink, and now, having left him be for a while, went over to him and placed a hand on his back.

"Come along, John, it's best we get back to it," He said gently.

John wiped his mouth and grimaced in disgust and hurt. "I'll never get used to it," he said, "seeing dead bodies, I mean."

Martin patted the boy's back and nodded. "You're not supposed to."

As they approached the beach, another man called out, "Martin! Come here a moment, will you?"

Martin looked apologetically at his apprentice, but John only nodded. "Just a moment, Cowan!" Martin said, then turned to John, "Search for any others that might have washed up - if you feel sick again, you can go back to the portmaster's house." He said kindly, then left.

John sniffed and turned toward the beach with a grimace. He wasn't squeamish - he really wasn't. But seeing dead deer and dead hares was one thing; seeing a dead human corpse was another matter entirely. With a deep breath, he marched over to the shoreline, fearing the worst. He walked for some ways without seeing any new bodies, besides the ones that the locals were hurrying to clear out and burry, before the gulls swarmed in. Then, he came upon a small, dark form, and his heart twisted. The man was lying face-up, his lips purple and his skin clammy. Hesitently, John approached and eventually knelt by the still figure.

He was afraid to touch it. To touch _him_. For at one time, this body had been a _him,_ a _he_, a life. It disturbed John, and made him incredibly sad. He looked over the small man, realizing that it wasn't really a man - barely more than a boy. "You're hardly older than me," He whispered to the corpse. "I'm so very, very sorry." Then, as he looked the body over, John's tortured expression turned to one of pure confusion.

He was bleeding.

The man - that is, the boy - was bound at the wrists for reasons John couldn't comprehend, and his wrists were swollen and purple and bleeding because of it. _Bleeding. _Abandoning his fear, John reached out and touched the body, lifting up the soaked rope bonds from the boy's limp wrists and pressing the clammy skin just below the welts. Fresh, red blood welled up, and John's face cleared in revelation. His eyes darted back up to the lifeless face on the beach. _Dead men don't bleed._ His heart racing, John pressed two fingers to the unconscious man's neck. One second. Two. Three. then, he felt it, and his heart leaped into his throat. He shuffled around and hurriedly pressed his ear against the man's chest. It was subtle it was crackely, but it was there. A breath.

"Martin," John said quietly at first, his eyes not leaving the face of the young man in front of him. then, when he realized that his master was out of earshot, he looked up and raised his voice, "Martin! He's alive! He's still breathing! Come quickly!"

* * *

The small dark-haired boy had been one of only three survivors. The other two, obviously sailors, where still conscious when they'd been found, and had been promptly issued into Cowan's custody while they recovered. They would be arrested and tried for smuggling once they were well. As for the boy, his discription fit none of the known fugitives or smugglers in the area, and so he was admitted into their makeshift infirmary without any impending charges.

Martin looked curiously inside the soaked leather bag that had been wrapped about the boy's arm. Although the garments inside the satchel were of high quality, they did not tell Martin much about the boy. He'd found a packet of wet, now spoiled bread, a waterskin, a small bag of half-dried white mush that looked like it was once some sort of medicine, and a small glass bottle, with a cork stopper and a piece of paper inside. He'd taken a moment to admire the charcoal sketch inside, but it didn't do anything to clear the list of questions that Martin about the strange young man lying on the healer's cot.

For instance, what on earth had happened to his shoulder? At first glance, Martin would have guessed that it had been broken in the shipwreck, but the healer assured him that the injury was several days old, at least. It had been re-set at least twice, and was now in dire need of medical treatment. There were welts on the boy's wrists from where they'd been tied, but why had he been bound? He looked well off, with the quality of his supplies and the muscle on his bones, but then, there was the binds and the shoulder - who was this strange boy?

"Well, how is the lad, then?" Cowan ducked into the room and sat down next to Martin, peering at the still form laid out under the white sheets.

"Alive, at least. I don't know any more about him than I did when John found him."

"Well, we can ask him when he wakes up, I suppose. What's in the bag?

Martin shrugged at his old friend. "Not much. Some very wet clothes, a charcoal drawing in a bottle, and some ruined supplies."

"Hmm," Cowan glanced at the comatose boy on the cot. "A bit of a puzzle, eh?"

"I'd say. You don't suppose he's part of the smugglers gang?"

"What, this one?" Cowan gestured to the boy incredulously, "No. His skin is to fair and too soft to be a sailor. And while I'm sure he has some strength in those muscles, no seaman would take him. His arms are too small. No, I'm sure he got caught in the crossfire somewhere or other - he was just along for the ride when that ship sank."

Martin nodded, glad for his friend's perceptive eye. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I have a list of questions a mile long for him when he wakes up."

Cowan smiled. "Aye, me too. Only, don't overwhelm the poor boy. He nearly drowned in the sea, no need to drown him in questions now."

* * *

When Halt woke up, he was nearly positive that he was dead. He was in a warm bed, with soft pillow behind his head and clean clothes on his back. A cool breeze brushed the tips of his hair, and the light filtering in from outside was bright, but not too bright. Halt had never really considered what the afterlife might look like, but he thought this couldn't be too far off.

And then, feeling returned in his shoulder and his wrists. Somehow, Halt couldn't believe that being dead would hurt so much. He must be alive.

He groaned involuntarily as a huge, bone-deep ache knit itself into his back and shoulder. He heard rustling closeby, but his eyes were closed and he didn't think it was worth looking around.

"He's awake," a voice said distantly, and then, closer, "Hello?"

After a moment of effort, Halt managed to focus his eyes on the figure above him. Behind a mess of sandy bangs, two sky blue eyes peered at him curiously, as if they recognized him, but didn't quiet know what to do with him. Halt thought he might say something, but when he moved his mouth, his tongue was dry and his cheeks stuck to his gums.

Apparently reading his expression, the blue-eyed boy went wordlessly over to a table and brought back a cup of water. "Here," he said, "Drink this."

Halt did, and after the other boy took the cup away, the young Hibernian finally said, "Where am I?"

The other boy smiled, as if amazed that Halt could talk. "Stockton," he said, "just north of Selsey." When he read Halt's expression of total incomprehension, he elaborated, "Stockton port - just west of Redmont, north of Selsey village, on the west coast."

Halt shook his head, blinking quickly. "I, I don't know where that is," he said. The other boy frowned at him.

"Really? But it's-"

"Never heard of it before, any of it." Halt put a hand gingerly to his head, which had started to throb.

"Go easy on him, John, he's not from here," Martin entered, giving Halt a sympathetic glance before eyeing his apprentice meaningfully. He turned a friendlly expression on Halt. "Hello, I'm Martin. It's good to see you awake. Are you feeling alright?"

Halt didn't know if he should trust the man or not, but he shrugged regardless. "Like I was in a shipwreck," he said, recalling the previous night like a bad dream. "My shoulder hurts."

"I bet it does, just give it time." Martin pulled over a small stool and sat on it. "Are you from Hibernia?"

Halt froze, his eyes wary. The sailors had asked him that, and this man seemed to have the same accent as they did, albeit this man was better with enunciation. He was't sure if he wanted to trust him or not. "Why?" He asked.

Martin tilted his head. "Well, you don't have to tell me. Judging by your accent, I'm guessing that you're from Hibernia - Northern Hibernia. Clonmel, perhaps, or Héiroch, if you're from a bit further west." Halt looked at him in surprise, and Martin knew he was correct in his assessment. He smiled at the boy. "What's your name?"

It took Halt a moment and a long, suspicious glance before he said, "Halt."

Martin took the name in stride and nodded. "Well, nice to meet you, Halt. Welcome to Araluen."

_Araluen._ The name stuck in Halt's mind, and he suddenly remembered why he'd recognized the sailors' strange accents - he'd heard them many times before among the Araluan delegations that would sometimes come to Dun Kilty. They were Araluan accents. He was in Araluen. Despite himself, Halt felt an accute curiousity for this strange new land - he'd heard much about it, and knew that Araluens were something like geographical and political cousins with much of Hibernia, even if the two tended to have diplomatic squabbles with each other.

"Thank you," Halt eventually said. Martin smiled again, and looked like he was about to say something else when he was called away by someone in another room.

"Just a moment," Martin called back with a sigh. "It's always one thing or other. I'm sorry, but I have to go. I'll be back soon. John, keep Halt company and see if you can't get the man some dinner. He looks starved."

And of course, Halt's stomach chose that moment to grumble. He hadn't noticed how hungry he was until Martin mentioned it. Now, he was ravenous. John snickered, but obliged by getting Halt a bowl of stew. After eating a few bites, Halt looked up to the boy that was watching him quietly.

John was a year, maybe a year and a half younger and a few inches taller than Halt himself. He had diry blond hair that looked like it could stand for a combing, and clear eyes that sparkled with honesty and something that Halt recognized as mischeif. He was also wearing a strange-looking cloak. Halt frowned to himself as he realized that Martin had been wearing a cloak identical to it.

"So, John," Halt began to ask a question, but John forestalled him.

"Please don't call me that."

Halt frowned. "But Martin called you-"

John rolled his eyes. "Martin is the only one who ever calls me by my first name."

"Why's that?"

"I don' t know. He seems to think it's more 'proper', even though there has to be a trillion other 'John's in this country. Do you know how annoying it is to share a name with a trillion other chaps who look nothing like you?"

Halt had never heard of the number 'trillion', but he shook his head anyway. "Well, 'Halt' isn't exactly a common name," he said. He'd always found it annoying that no one else shared his name. It made him feel like a freak.

Oblivious to Halt's opinion of his own name, John snorted. "You're lucky," he said.

"So, what _should_ I call you?" Halt asked after a moment.

John smiled. "Oh, just what everyone else calls me, my surname."

"And, what would your surname be?" Halt was frowning.

John stepped forward and extended a friendly hand. "Call me Crowley."

* * *

A/N: Yay! He's on Araluen soil, at long last! I'm super excited to get the plot wheels turning and introduce my OCs! I've never thought myself much of an OC author, but lately I've been toting out more and more... I do hope I'm not annoying anyone to intensely with my OCs. Please tell me if I am.

We never were told if 'Crowley' was a first name or a surname, so I decided to mix things up and give him a full name.

Once again, no spellcheck! Tell me if you catch any typos!

Reviews are love.


	13. In the Company of Rangers

"If it had been any more dramatic, you wouldn't have much of a shoulder to speak of, by now. Luckily, it's a small, clean break, and not very offset." The healer peered at Halt's shoulder through the thin spectacles perched on his bird-like nose.

Stripped of his shirt, Halt sat awkwardly on his cot while the physician looked him over. He had his neck craned far to the left so the man could get a good look at his collarbone, and had to turn his eyes painfully around to see the injury. 'Small' and 'clean' weren't exactly the words that came to Halt's mind when he looked at the swollen mass of red, purple and yellow flesh on his shoulder, but then again, he wasn't exactly an expert. The doctor prodded at the injury gently, and despite his feather-light touch, Halt just couldn't keep the wince from his face. He knew the man meant well, but his shoulder was in constant pain, much less when someone went about poking and prodding as the man was.

The healer looked at him with apologetic eyes. "The pain medication should start working soon." he reached down to his back and produced a tin of potent-smelling salve. The aroma was very herby and not at all unpleasant, but rather overwhelming. "In the meantime, this will numb the pain and reduce the swelling." He gently rubbed the spread over Halt's shoulder before wrapping it carefully in gauze. "Keep your arm in the sling, and don't move it around too much, and it should heal just fine. It will be several weeks before it's strong again, but the pain should go away quickly, and when it heals, it'll be as good as new." He smiled at Halt, "You're young - young people bounce back quickly from injuries such as this. Lord only knows if I broke something at my age, I'd never get it back!" He chuckled and rose from where he'd been sitting. He instructed Halt on how best to dress himself without disturbing his shoulder, gave him several extra doses of pain medication and gauze, then packed up his black bag and left the room. Halt followed into the small living area where Martin and Cowan lounged together.

"Ah, Thomas. Martin told me you'd come to help. How is he?" Cowan smiled at the two new comers.

"Well, he's a broken collarbone, as you'd said. Nothing too troubling, just a clean, sharp break. If he rests it enough and keeps the bones in their places, it should heal perfectly well." He glanced back at Halt as he spoke. "A few bumps and bruises as well, but nothing that won't take care of itself. Keep an eye on that break, and he should be just fune." The healer paused by the door to smile at them all. "A good day to all of you; Martin, Cowan, Halt." With that, the thin healer stepped outside and shut the door softly behind him.

Halt used his good arm to shift the sling that now hung from his neck. He'd never considered how much a human arm weighed, but after just a few minutes, his neck was already starting to ache from the added strain of supporting his arm. He wondered if he could devise a more comfortable sling before his neck developed a permanent crick.

"Good to see you up and walking," Martin said, "why don't you join us for lunch?" He gestured to the plate of breads, cheeses and meats that sat on the low table in front of them. Halt nodded gratefully and assembled himself a plate, albeit a bit awkwardly with only one arm.

"So," Cowan said, munching on a bite of toast, "I'm curious, Halt, how exactly did you end up on a smuggler's ship? And a wrecked one, at that."

"Cowan," Martin said reasonably, "you don't have to interrogate the boy,"

"Now's as good as ever," Cowan swallowed and looked expectantly to Halt. Martin sighed and looked at the young Hibernian apologetically.

Not sure exactly what he was going to tell them, Halt said, "I was on the docks in a small port town on the east coast of Clonmel." He started, pausing to piece his story together, "There were a couple of wild dogs that had found there way there, and... Well, they started chasing me. I suppose they were either rabid or very hungry." Halt stole a glance at the two men, wondering if they suspected that he was lying. If they did, it didn't show in the slightest, so Halt continued, "I figured that dogs couldn't climb ladders, so I climbed aboard the nearest ship I could find and waited for them to leave. It was getting late, and I fell asleep while I was waiting. When I woke up, it was because the crew had found me some hours after they'd left port."

Cowan raised his eyebrows. "And they didn't kill you then and there? Merciful, for smugglers."

Halt shook his head. "They recognized my accent and found out that I speak Hibernian Gaeilge. As I understand it, they intended to sell me as a translator once they arrived at - well, wherever it was they were headed."

Martin shook his head. "An utterly deplorable practice. I'm glad you survived, though. It seems as though your hometongue saved you."

Halt tried to smile, but it was little more than a twitch of his lips. Cowan took a swig of his water and sat back in his chair. "By the way," He asked, frowning slightly at Halt, "What's your family name?"

Halt was nonplussed for a moment. "O'Connor." He said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly.

"Ah," Cowan nodded, "I've know a few O'Connors before. Common family name in Hibernia, is it?"

"Yes, fairly common, I suppose."

"I thought as much." Cowan seemed satisfied, but his grey eyes peered at Halt with something that the teen couldn't quite identify.

At that moment, Crowley entered the room, drenched in sweat and holding a long wooden bow in his left hand. "It's a bloody _sauna_ out there." He leaned his bow against the doorjam and removed the large quiver from his back.

"Done practicing already?" Martin asked mildly, sipping at his coffee. Crowley turned to give his master a long-suffering look.

"It's been two whole hours - in that heat, surely that's long enough."

Martin shrugged. "For now." He smirked into his cup while Crowley groaned and fell into a seat.

"I swear, you enjoy it - torturing me, that is. Oh hi, Halt." Crowley smiled at Halt when he spotted the other boy.

Once again, Halt noticed the similar cloaks that Crowley and Martin - and Cowan, he'd learned - all wore. He wondered if all Araluans wore the same mottled pattern when they traveled. Somehow, he didn't think so. When Crowley turned and greeted him, Halt gave a microscopic smile. "Hello, Crowley."

"Crowley, is it?" Martin looked over at his apprentice, who appeared smug, "You've already got him calling you by your surname?" Martin looked disappointed, but Crowley only smiled. "I suppose I should have seen that coming. Are you _ever_ going to use your proper name?"

"But Crowley _is_ my proper name." the boy said innocently.

"You know what I mean, _John_."

Crowley wrinkled his nose at the name. Martin just sighed again.

"Perhaps when you grow up you'll come to appreciate your name more." Martin rose and took the stack of used dishes from the room

"Unlikely," Crowley muttered out the side of his mouth. Halt almost smirked.

Cowan overheard him, and asked, "What is more unlikely: you appreciating your first name, or you growing up? They're both reasonable assertions, when you think about it." Halt couldn't hold back the surprise snort of laughter that escaped him. Crowley glared in his direction, but Cowan smiled and gave him a wink. "See? Halt barely knows you and he agrees with me." Cowan rose and swallowed the last mouthful of his coffee.

"We'll be leaving here tomorrow morning, to go back Redmont." He turned to look at Halt. "You could stay here while your shoulder mends, but don't look for many ships to come in soon - this is a rather small port. On the other hand," Cowan shifted his weight, and spread his hands slightly in a friendly gesture, "You're more than welcome to come with us, so long as you're up to it. I can find you a place to stay in Redmont while you figure out how to get back home."

Halt stood there silently for several moments before he realized that both Cowan and Crowley were looking at him, as if expecting an answer. "I'll go with you," he said at length. Crowley broke into a wide grin. "If it's alright with you," He added. Cowan nodded.

"I wouldn't have offered if it wasn't. But you'll need some new clothes - the ones from your bag are starched in seasalt. It'll take an eternity to clean them. Perhaps Crowley can lend you an outfit or two?" Cowan looked to Crowley.

"Oh, of course, no problem." Crowley smiled, and Halt realized that the other teen was excited to have traveling company his own age. For some reason, this made Halt nervous.

Halt nodded appreciatively at Cowan, and the older man left the room.

"Come on," Crowley said once Cowan was gone, "the sooner we get you clothes, the better. We have some packing to do before tomorrow." Crowley smiled at him and lead him back into the room that the two had been sharing as a place to sleep.

Halt hung back, grateful for his newfound allies, but nervous. Cowan expected him to find someway back to Hibernia when he got the chance. How on earth could he explain that he didn't _want_ to go back - that if he did, he'd be killed? A chance encounter with rabid dogs couldn't explain away _that _one. Halt sighed mentally, vainly trying to forget his predicament. As he followed Crowley into the room, he wondered briefly what this Redmont place would be like.

* * *

Even before he'd hit puberty, Halt had always known that he would never be nearly as tall nor as big as the majority of his peers. He was short and compact, and that was a fact of life. However, this fact had never really interfered with his daily life - until now. Back in Clonmel, when he had been a prince, smaller stature wasn't anything to be concerned about. He was a prince: baggy clothes were tailored to fit him before he even put them on, his horse was specially picked to fit his size and strength, his weapons were custom made for his unique draw and reach, and even if anyone _did _think that their crown prince was small, puny, or any other sort of pathetic because of his compact proportion, none of them had the gall to say so in front of Halt. Unfortunately, washed ashore in a country where no one had the slightest inking who he was, Halt was no longer treated with such consideration.

For the umpteenth time, Halt tugged at the sleeve of his borrowed tunic to keep it from slipping off his shoulder. At first glance, Crowley didn't look as though he was that much bigger than Halt. It was only after Halt had adorned the borrowed clothes that it became evident just how tall and broad the other boy was. _Or maybe I'm even shorter than I thought,_ Halt considered morosely. Honestly, he didn't mind being short, but it could be such a darned inconvenience. He looked like a ragdoll wearing a sack - the tunic, vest, and leggings hung off of his slight frame in a way quite unbecoming of his scowling face, and the belt that he wore was tightened around his waist nearly as tight as the buckle would allow. The only part of his attire that actually fit him correctly were his boots, which had (thank heaven) been cleaned and salvaged from the salty ravages of the sea.

Then, there was the matter of his horse. For the first two hours or so of their journey, Halt had been riding a pretty chestnut that Cowan had loaned from one of the locals. However, it quickly became apparent that the horse was reckless and headstrong, and Halt, with his small stature and broken arm, could hardly control the beast. Though the young Hibernian insisted to Cowan several times that he could handle it, if given the chance, the man had explained that he couldn't drag Halt to the Redmont infirmary with a re-re-re-broken collarbone without being skinned alive by the head healer, (with whom Cowan apparently had a rocky relationship) and so, Halt would ride double with him. From where he sat on Cowan's bay, Halt glared at the chestnut gelding, who was now acting as the party's pack horse.

"Faring alright back there, Halt?"

Halt fidgeted in his seat, trying to move his sore muscles. "Well enough."

"I'd say so - You're a good rider." Cowan said. Of course, the other man couldn't have known that Halt had spent whole days as a prince doing nothing but practicing his horsemanship, but Halt nodded in gratitude anyway.

Martin directed his horse over to ride alongside Cowan and Halt. "It'll be getting dark soon. Any preference on sleeping quarters for the night?" He gestured to the hilly fields that surrounded them. Cowan shaded his eyes and peered into the horizon.

"There's an outcrop of rock just beyond that farthest hill, I think." Cowan said, utilizing his mental map of the area, "It'll give us a good view of the land, and none of the darned ticks that love this grass so much."

Martin nodded, "Well then, let's go; I'm hungry, and I'd absolutely kill for a cup of coffee about now."

* * *

Around the fire that evening, in the dying sunlight, the small entourage ate their dinner of stew, which Halt found surprisingly tasty for travel food. Crowley spoke animatedly throughout the meal, with intermittent comments from Cowan and sometimes Martin. The two older men merely smiled and enjoyed Crowley's love of talking and storytelling. Halt kept silent through most of the dinner, but when Crowley's mouth took a break to eat the last portions of his stew, Halt asked the question that he'd been itching to ask for the past two days.

"Why do you all wear those cloaks?"

Three heads looked up at him, each registering a different degree of surprise. Cowan looked the least surprised. "They're just cloaks," he said. Martin cast him a sidelong glance.

Halt shook his head. "No they're not. I haven't seen many Araluans, but the ones I've seen are never dressed in patchwork."

Martin hid a smile, and Cowan glanced down at his mottled attire. "Not patchwork," he said in mock hurt, "_camouflage._ And no, I suppose not many Araluans wear them."

"Then what are they for?"

"As I said, they're for _camouflage._"

"Camouflage from what?"

Cowan scoffed, gesturing widely. "Well, from enemies, of course."

"Enemies?" Halt frowned, "You have enemies?"

"Well, yes, naturally we have a few. Comes with the occupation." Cowan spoke with a tone of exasperation.

"Oh." Halt thought over this, then asked, "What _is_ your occupation?"

Cowan threw his hands in the air. "Questions! I swear, it's a disease among you young people. Martin, you can explain. I'm making more coffee."

Martin fought to keep the smile from his face, despite Cowan's disgruntled countenance as the he shuffled away to the saddlepacks. "We're rangers," he told Halt, "King's rangers, to be exact."

Halt involuntarily stiffened. _The King? _Would that mean that these men knew royalty? Would that mean that they knew _him?_ No, they would have said so by now, surely.

"...National intelligence force, among other things," Martin was saying. "We act as the King's eyes, ears, and peace-keepers in Araluen."

Halt nodded calmly, taking this information in stride. Clonmel had - or at least _tried_ to have - a similar system, thought they hardly ever worked the way they were supposed to. As prince, he had learned about the importance agents such as these 'rangers'.

"It's funny," Martin said with a small chuckle, "explaining all this to someone who hasn't already heard of us before. I'm sure it would all sound much more impressive, were you an Araluan."

Halt frowned. "Why's that?"

"Rangers have a bit of a... a _reputation,_" He began.

"Oh, yes," Crowley chimed in enthusiastically, "Warlocks in disguise, practitioners of black magic, sorcerers infiltrating a peaceful country!"

"John..." Martin rolled his eyes to heaven.

"Fiends, fell-faeries, and oh - my personal favorite - _cannibals_. You mustn't forget the Cannibals, Martin."

"Wait," Halt wasn't sure he'd heard them correctly, "_What?_"

Martin put out a hand to forestall him, "John is jesting, Halt. Rangers have a bit of a reputation, as I said, for being... How shall we put it... Mysterious, exclusive, and perhaps a bit uncanny. The peasant folk like explaining those characteristics by creating fantastic stories like the ones John has just mentioned."

Halt blinked. "You don't seem very uncanny to me," he said.

"Oh, don't worry - we can be quite so when we wish to be." Cowan appeared in the firelight once more as he set a new pot of coffee on to brew. Halt shrugged to himself, not sure what to think about these 'uncanny rangers'. They seemed trustworthy to him, but then, he'd only known them for a few days. A thought struck him.

"Do you all carry bows and knives?" He asked.

Cowan cast an impressed look at Halt, then at Martin. "Perceptive lad, isn't he?" He looked back at Halt. "Aye, we do - those are the weapons of a ranger, the bow and the knife."

Halt nodded. It made sense. "I've never seen such large bows before," he commented, recalling that the long-range weapons of his homeland were shorter, and probably less powerful.

"Aye, the Araluen longbow. Lovely weapon," Cowan picked up his and studied it. "Takes a bit of practice, though."

Halt nodded, and glanced around. He frowned when he noticed something. "Why is yours different from Crowley's?" He asked, eyeing Crowley's weapons, which rested not far away from their owner. Whereas Cowan's bow was flat in shape save for the thick handle near the middle, Crowley's was a round rod all down the bow's length.

"John is still growing and training," Martin explained, pausing to smile at his apprentice, "his yew selfbow has a lighter draw that than the flatbows that Cowan and I use," his hand went to rest on the darkwood bow at his side, "Eventually, Crowley will use a flat longbow as well, when he's strong enough."

Crowley smiled widely at Halt, and the Hibernian nodded. "I suppose that makes sense," he said.

"Good." Cowan downed the last of his coffee in record time. "Now, if campfire stories are over, I'd like to get some sleep. We can reach Redmont by supper tomorrow, if we leave at sunup."

"Ah, Cowan needs his beauty sleep. Well then, milady, by all means, douse the fire and I'll take first watch." Martin teased, rising from his seat.

"Just because you can live off of the night itself doesn't mean that us normal humans can, you old coot." Cowan growled.

"Don't you mean cannibal?" Crowley piped up.

"Make your bed, John," Martin called in an admonishing tone. "I'll get you situated with that arm, Halt."

Eventually, Cowan and Crowley were snoozing peacefully, their breathing deep and even. Halt knew he'd seen Martin go over to take first watch by the highest outcrop of rock, but even though the spot was lit clearly by the moonlight, Halt couldn't for the life of him figure out exactly where the ranger had gone to. He sighed and shifted his arm in it's sling. His back was propped up by a combination of saddles and packs, to make sure his arm didn't move while he slept. It was a bit uncomfortable, but Halt found that his eyelids were to droopy for him to care much about comfort.

_For uncanny rangers, I don't think they're so bad,_ Halt thought, peering at the still forms of Crowley and Cowan from where he was nodding off. _Though I do hope they're not actually cannibals._ It was on that cheery thought that Halt's eyelids finally dropped and he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was pure fun to write. I'm really having fun with young Crowley and Cowan especially. No spellcheck, once again, so tell me if you spot any mistakes.

**ALSO: I have a TON of things planned for this story, which spells out epic proportions where length is concerned. However, not all of them are connected or related to each other, so I'm very seriously considering making this story the first installment in a 'Young Halt' serial. What do you guys think? (Or do you have an opinion at all?) Let me know in your reviews!  
**

Read and review, please!


	14. Questions over Coffee

Cowan woke to the sound of yelling. Instincts taking over, he rolled out of bed, unsheathed his knife, and assumed a fighting stance in one swift movement. It was early morning, and a few feet away, a wide-eyed Halt was pushing himself backwards along the ground with his legs and good arm, away from something that Cowan couldn't see.

"What," Halt said, his Hibernian brogue coming out heavily in his panicked state, "in all the good green earth, is _that?_"

Crowley walked over to the commotion, peering over at whatever Halt was fleeing from. "Oh, come on, Halt" he bent over and picked something up. "It's only a grassy."

"A _what?_"

"A grass snake." Crowley held up the skinny reptile. It hissed, and Halt jerked away from it, even though he was nearly a metre away already. Crowley laughed. "What's wrong?"

"It's not... Poisonous, is it?" Halt's suspicious gaze never left the small reptile's head, even as it hissed in annoyance at its sandy-haired captor.

"What? No! Of course not!" Crowley chuckled in disbelief. "Honestly, Halt, haven't you seen one of these things before?"

Halt cast a quick glance at the other boy, but then returned his gaze to the snake. "No," He said, as if the answer should have been obvious.

"Ah, yes," Martin rose from where he'd been preparing them all a cold breakfast, "I'd nearly forgotten. I suppose you _haven't _ever seen a snake before, have you?"

Heedless of the irritated reptile that he was still holding, Crowley let his arms drop to his sides and turned to regard his master in disbelief. "Never seen a snake?" he asked incredulously.

"Nope," Martin walked over to the two boys and helped Halt to his feet. "Not a single belly-crawler in all of Hibernia, is there, Halt?"

Halt looked at Martin, and once more at the grass snake. "Definitely not." He said.

"_What?_" Crowley looked at Halt like his head was screwed on backwards, then turned to his master. "But that's just a legend," he said in an undertone. Martin shrugged with a grin.

"No, it's more than that - it's the truth."

"No," Crowley breathed in disbelief. He looked at the snake, then at Halt. "No snakes? A land with absolutely no snakes? I can hardly imagine."

"Oh, don't worry, it's there," Halt assured him, his brogue still thick, "And much prettier for it." He made a face at the snake when he thought it was looking at him.

"Nasty things," Cowan sheathed his knife and came over. "Halt's right - Hibernia is no worse for her - er, loss. Now, time to eat and pack up."

"Ah, sleeping beauty awakes." Martin commented. He frowned at his apprentice. "Crowley, put that poor creature down."

Crowley sighed and released his captive, who slithered off indignantly. "Have you _really_ never seen a snake?" he turned to Halt.

"Well," The Hibernian shrugged defensively, "I've _heard_ about them, that they're poisonous and nasty, and like to crawl into things, but... No, I'd never seen one before this morning when the bloody thing _crawled into my blankets_." He glared at the tail end of the creature as it slunk beneath a rock.

"Not all snakes are poisonous, you know. Grass snakes, for instance - they're completely harmless." Crowley told him.

"Well, that's a relief. Next time I find one in my bed, _you _can have it."

Before Crowley could respond, Cowan broke in from where he stood by the last coals of their fire. "Ah, our young friend has a giving spirit. How touching. Now, if you two would stop yapping and start eating, we can be on our way."

* * *

Castle Redmont was an impressive structure. As former royalty, Halt was used to seeing castles of all shapes and sizes, but even he raised his eyebrows a little when the massive fortress came into view for the first time. Set up on a hill amid a sea of grassy fields, Redmont dominated the landscape with its ironstone walls and three jutting turrets. The dusk light hit the western walls and lit them aflame with a rusty red color, which Halt realized must have given the castle its name.

At first Halt had thought that their destination was the castle itself, but at the fork in the road where one road led north to the castle and the other east to the farmland, Halt was a little surprised when Cowan casually turned his steed down the east-bound road. He thought about asking where they were headed, but he bit his tongue. He supposed that he'd find out soon enough. Martin and Crowley seemed completely unsurprised by the path they were taking.

As they rode, Halt couldn't help but notice the odd looks cast their way by the farmers and commoners that still lingered out on the roads and in the fields. _Uncanny,_ Martin's words jumped back to him, and he wondered what, exactly, gave birth to such rumors concerning these rangers. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Ah, home sweet home." Cowan said after several minutes, and Halt peered around the ranger's shoulder to the forest where they were headed. In the dying light, Halt could just make out the outline of a small building surrounded by a low fence and untamed shrubbery.

"This is where you live?" Halt asked.

"Aye, been here for the past ten years." Cowan smiled around at him.

"It's nice." Halt said. He may have lived in a castle his whole life, but he enjoyed the forest more than any stone fortress, and the idea of living right on the forestline appealed to him.

"I think so."

"Yes, it's lovely. But its also packed to the brim with God only knows what - is there even room for all of us to stay here, Cowan?" Martin asked from behind them.

The other ranger scratched the stubble on his cheek. "Well. I can always make room."

"I call dibs on the cave!" Crowley called up, and Cowan frowned.

"Cave? I don't have a cave," He said.

"He means your spare bedroom," Martin explained. "There's so much junk in there, it might as well be a cave."

Cowan looked offended, but didn't comment. "There's a sofa and a few chairs. You can always have the floor if you like, Martin."

In fact, the cabin wasn't quite as cluttered as Martin allowed. It was messy, and rather dusty, but it was easy enough to get around. However, the spare bedroom did turn out to resemble a cave rather well. Halt supposed it was the room where Cowan dumped anything that didn't have a home, because it was piled high with a strange assortment of objects, doo-dads, and weapons. The only clear space in the 'cave' was a hole through which to climb onto the bed. Why Crowley would _want _to sleep in there, Halt couldn't understand. But then, he didn't understand most things about Crowley.

Another striking feature of the house was the smell. Behind the initial odor of dust and a foresty breeze from outside, there was an underlying aroma of something that Halt recognized, but couldn't quite pin down. It was the smell of... Something. Rich, bitter, with just a hint of sweetness. He knew it, it was on the tip of his tongue. It was the smell of...

"Coffee!" Crowley hopped up and happily accepted the cup that Martin had offered him.

"Is that wise, Martin? Giving caffeine to that boy? I think perhaps he produces the stuff on his own."

Crowley stuck out his tongue at Cowan, and Martin shook his head."Would you like some, Halt?" he asked, holding up the pot.

Halt shrugged. "I've never had any before." Halt had learned quickly that rangers were all over-fond of the dark drink, but he hadn't had any during their trip, and it wasn't something that Dun Kilty kept in stock.

Crowley looked gobsmacked. "Never had coffee? _Ever?_ First you've never seen a snake, and now you've never had coffee. Really, Halt, what do you lot do over in Hibernia?"

"John, stop it." Martin rebuked. "Well, feel free to try some. Cowan keeps a good stock of the stuff here. Would you like a cup?"

Halt shrugged again. "Why not?" After Martin poured him a mug and handed it to him, Halt blew away the steam and sipped at it experimentally. He grimaced at the bitter flavor, and took another small sip before setting the cup aside. "Perhaps not," He said, wondering how Crowley could suck back his cup without being overwhelmed by the bitter flavor. Martin shrugged, but Cowan stood and went to the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a small earthenware container with a wooden rod sticking up out of it.

"Oh, not this again," Crowley said.

"Really, Cowan, it ruins the flavor," Added Martin.

Cowan forestalled them with a hand. "Let the lad decide for himself." He took Halt's mug and brought out the wooden rod, which was tipped with a strange grooved knob that dripped with a thick golden substance.

"Honey?" Halt asked skeptically.

"It softens the bitterness, makes it sweeter. The only way to drink good coffee, I think." Cowan explained.

"The only way to _ruin_ coffee, you mean." Martin said.

Ignoring his friend, Cowan stirred some honey into Halt's cup and handed it back to him. "Try it."

Halt did so, hesitantly, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the acidic bite of the coffee was gone. It was a nice balance of sweet and bitter, now. "That's better. Thanks, Cowan."

Cowan nodded, and turned to smile triumphantly at his two coffee-loving comrades. "See?"

Crowley grumbled, and Martin sighed. "Perhaps its a Hibernian thing," he said, although Halt really wasn't sure what the ranger meant by that.

A quiet evening followed, and despite the energizing caffeine in the coffee, all four friends slowly settled down into relaxed company. Crowley taught Halt how to play a card game, and Halt brooded when he was unable to beat the young ranger. Martin read a book by the fireplace, and Cowan shifted through the stack of letters that had accumulated in his absence. When he was done, he looked up to the others.

"Well, we should get to bed. We've some rest to catch up on, and Martin, the Baron wants to see me tomorrow morning. You might as well come along. Halt, I want Redmont's head healer to look at that shoulder - I know Thomas said you're alright, but it wouldn't do for it to grow back crooked just because we didn't double-check it. And Crowley... Well, just don't let anything fall on top of you while you sleep in that silly bedroom."

Crowley smiled. "Don't worry, I won't."

"Good. And loan Halt a nightshirt, will you? Now, everyone to bed."

* * *

The next morning, Halt was one of the first awake. It was his shoulder that had awoken him, and he winced as pain flared up as he tried to stand. He looked over to where Martin slept sprawled out on the floor. Where Martin's head should have been, there was a mess of slate grey tangles, and Halt smiled to himself. Martin wore his hair long, but it was always immaculately trimmed and brushed, and seeing his hair in such disarray amused Halt. He stepped over the ranger's sleeping form and navigated his way to the leather bag that held his meager belongings. After digging through a pile of salty clothes, Halt found the small bag of medication that Thomas had given him. He bit into a one-dose tablet of the stuff, and grimaced at the bitter flavor. As he was putting the bag back, his fingers brushed up against something else. He froze, and pulled out the corked bottle. Astonishingly, the paper inside was still intact and unharmed by the copious amounts of water that had bombarded it within the past few days. He took it out and unfolded it.

"Who's the artist?" Cowan asked from behind him.

Halt spun around wildly and was about to say something, but the tall ranger smiled good-naturedly and put a finger to his lips. He helped Halt up to his feet and gestured that they should move outside. Halt walked out the door, but Cowan paused to pick up a tray of coffee before following.

"How did you do that, appear all of a sudden?" Halt asked him once they were both on the porch.

Cowan chuckled. "I told you we could be uncanny. But that's not the point." He poured himself a cup of coffee. "So, who's the artist? Whoever they are, they're very talented." He glanced at the drawing that Halt still held.

Halt looked down sadly at the sketch and thought for a moment before he said, "My sister drew it for me, for my sixteenth birthday."

Cowan lifted his head in thought. "I see," he said, suddenly serious. "How old are you now, Halt?" He asked.

"Seventeen - I'll be eighteen in a few months."

Cowan nodded. There was a very long pause before the ranger spoke again. "Halt," he said, leaning forward in his seat and fixing Halt with a piercing gaze, "why did you run away?"

Halt's face drained of color. "What?" he asked in a small voice.

"You had a pack full of supplies when we found you." Cowan said, by way of explanation, "At first, I thought you'd stolen them from the smugglers in an attempt to escape before the ship crashed - but now you're telling me that the drawing has a personal connection to you. Unless you just happen to carry around a year-old birthday present with you everywhere you go, I'd say that you packed a bag before you left Hibernia." Cowan paused to let his words sink in. "And I don't think that a boy ambushed on a dock by of couple of wild dogs _packs a bag_ before he hops aboard a ship for safety. So," He spread his hands, "You must be running away. I want to know why."

Halt could only stare, pale-faced and wide-eyed. _He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows, _the words repeated over and over again in tandem with his racing heart. Unable to speak for his fear, Halt turned his gaze to his knees and avoided eye contact with Cowan at all costs. After a long, torturous moment, Cowan sighed.

"You don't have to tell me," he said, "but I'll warn you, Halt, that if I find out that you are some sort of fugitive running away from your sentence, I _will_ turn you over to the right authorities, no exceptions. So if you're running from the law, you'd best tell me now."

Halt clenched his jaw, but otherwise didn't move. Was abdicating one's throne to a vindictive, murderous brother considered a crime in Araluen? Was it a punishable offense for royalty to abandon their crown? He prayed it wasn't, but if it was, he wasn't going to incriminate himself. He remained silent.

Cowan sighed again. "The coffee's still warm, if you want some. There's honey as well. Martin and Crowley are bound to wake up soon - I'm going to go make breakfast."

Halt stayed stone still for several long moments, until he was called in for breakfast. As they sat around the table and ate, Martin and Crowley couldn't quite figure out why Halt wouldn't look Cowan in the eye.

* * *

A/N: The beginning part of this chapter, the part with the snake, is a reference to the fact that are absolutely no snakes in Ireland. (Parallel to Hibernia)

I'm not as happy with this chapter as I have been with other chapters... It seems rather choppy. Anyway, Tell me what you think.

**To answer a few questions that have been asked...**

**Moonfrost127****: Yes, Pauline will appear later in this story, and yes, there will be some Halt/Pauline involved. (Because I would never mess with canon)**

**hazelbunny****: I **_**am**_** planning on writing how Halt stole the Temujai horses, however, I do not know if it will be included in this particular story. As I mentioned in the previous chapter, I am thinking about continuing this story into a series of 'Young Halt' stories. After the 'Running for My Life' plotline is up, I'll start another story, and the story of the Temujai horses will probably be in there. **

**PLEASE Read an review, everyone! Your reviews always bring a smile to my face.**


	15. The Truth

"Cowan! You're back!" A young man, probably no older that fifteen, sprung up from where he'd been reading a book and sent a huge smile at the returned ranger. "Who've you brought with you?"

"Yes, I'm back. Ah, I don't believe you've met Martin," Cowan said, glancing back at his friend. "Martin, this is Fendrel's son, Arald. Arald, this is Martin, Ranger to Whitby fief."

"Nice to meet you, sir." Arald and Martin kindly shook hands.

"And this," Cowan continued, "is Halt."

Arald smiled at the other boy, but Halt just couldn't smile back. Arald's smile dampened fractionally, but he wouldn't be put out. "Nice to meet you too," he said.

"And you," Halt muttered politely. When they shook hands, Arald frowned.

"What happened to your arm?" He asked in concern.

"Broke it, I'm afraid." Cowan interrupted. "Well, the shoulder, anyway. He's here to have Beatrice take a look at it. _I'm _here to see your father - do you know where he is?"

Arald shrugged. "In his study, as always. I'm not sure what he does up there all day."

Cowan smiled. "Thank you, Arald. Good to see you again." the ranger ruffled the boy's dark hair as he walked by.

"Sorry about your arm -er, shoulder." Arald told Halt as he walked by. This time, Halt mustered the tiniest of smiles. The Hibernian jogged ahead so that he was walking alongside Martin.

"Who was that?" He asked.

"Baron Fendrel's son. Now come on, the healer's wing is this way." Martin steered Halt down a hallway and to a flight of stairs, where Cowan was already taking the steps two at a time. After a winding trail of doors and turns and thin hallways, they eventually came to a bright, window-lit room filled beds and shelves full of bottles. As he was about to walk into the room fully, Halt felt a hand on his good arm. He looked up, and Martin winked at him.

"Stay back here - it's always fun to watch when they argue." He whispered. At first, Halt wasn't sure what the ranger meant. Then, Cowan stepped forward and started talking.

"Ah, lovely as always I see, Bea." He smiled charmingly at the back of a small lady who was busied over some table. At once, she rounded on him with a presence that Halt would never had expected from a woman her size.

"You!" She hissed, her breath stirring the wild curls that had escaped from her hairtie, "You have the gall to come back in here and... and... After what you did to me!"

Cowan was looking oddly demure for such a tall and scruffy ranger. "Bea, it's not like I could have helped it, I wasn't exactly-"

"Do you have _any _idea of how much money it takes for a supply of that stuff? And you just waltz in here and use up _my entire stock!_"

"Like I said, I hardly had a choice in the matter..."

"And then there's poor Amelia! You scarred her for life when you crashed in here, bleeding from a dozen places, drunker than a fool at Harvestfest. Honestly, Cowan, do you even know what pain you've caused me?"

Halt cast a glance over at Martin. The other ranger was completely engrossed in the unfolding drama, his hand placed pensively at his mouth and his eyebrows set in a squiggle of concentration. Just beneath his index finger, Halt could make out a small smile hiding on Martin's lips.

"Now, Bea, that was nearly six months ago, surely-" Cowan was saying,

"Don't you 'Bea' me, you, you... Numbskull! Do you _ever_ think about what you do before you do it?"

"I wasn't even sober! Surely you can cut me some slack,"

Beatrice scoffed. "So not only are you stupid enough to go and nearly get yourself killed, _and_ let the wounds get infected, but _then _ you have to go and get yourself _drunk_?"

Cowan was ready to speak, but Beatrice kept talking "_And then_ come in here, bleed all over my floor, soil my sheets, scar my poor apprentice for life, and use up my entire supply of antiseptic. That stuff does _not_ come cheap, you know, and I'll be reduced to using half-decent substitutes until I can undo the damage you've done to my pantry."

There was a long pause, then Cowan shrugged. "You would have helped me whether I'd come in blessing your name or cursing it , Bea, and we both know that, so it really doesn't make any difference. Though, if it is any consolation, I am truly sorry for hurting the stock of your medicines. I didn't know."

She stood there for a moment, red-faced an indignant, looking anywhere but at Cowan. "What do you want, you thickheaded idiot?" She crossed her arms and glared. "You aren't hurt or sick, are you? Or am I going to have to hospitalize you _again_?"

"Actually," Cowan said, finally turning to indicate his companions, "It's my young friend here. He has a broken collarbone. It's been set and treated, but the set has been disturbed a few times. A healer set it back in Stockton, but I want to make sure it'll heal straight."

Beatrice bustled past him to Halt. "Probably the first intelligent thing you've done all month. Let's see," As she approached Halt, the boy was surprised to find that she was several inches shorter than him. She made up for her lack of height in sheer strength of personality, it seemed. For all her temper, her touch was very gentle as she led Halt to a nearby chair. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Halt."

"Well, nice to meet you Halt. How did you come by this break? It wasn't _him,_ was it?" She cast a dark look over at Cowan, who raised his eyebrows innocently.

"No... I fell off a roof - a first story roof." Halt swallowed. He'd sketched out his full story the night before - he only hoped it seemed plausible. "I was patching the thatch on my family's stable, slipped, and fell."

"And I take it," Beatrice said, not missing a beat, "That this stable can be found somewhere in Hibernia?"

Halt blushed, very aware of just how obvious his accent was. "Yes, ma'am." He said. He couldn't help but notice how Beatrice glanced back at Cowan when she realized that Halt was Hibernian.

"That's fine. How long ago did you break it?"

"About ten days," Halt told her. He hadn't actually realized how long he'd been away from home.

Beatrice nodded. "Well then, let's see if it's growing back smooth, shall we? Off with the shirt." As Halt undid the ties of his jerkin, Beatrice glanced back at the two rangers by the door.

"If it has been re-broken a few times, I'll want a nice long look at it. So if you two have any ranger-y business that you're just dying to get to, by all means do it. I'll turn him back over to you when I'm done."

* * *

"Fendrel, there you are. You leave your office so much, I thought I'd hardly a chance of finding you anywhere."

Fendrel didn't even bother looking up from where he sat hunched over a stack of papers with a quill in hand. "Oh, you rangers are so funny," He said with deadpan sarcasm, "look at me, I'm going to positively burst with laughter."

"Aw, why thank you, Fendrel. I missed you, too."

"You two are an odd couple, that's for sure," Martin said as he entered the room. This time, Fendrel did look up.

"Ah, Martin! What a surprise. Do sit down - you can too, Cowan. I'll have you know that you've left me saddled with a rather copious amount of paperwork since you flew away, and it's been giving my poor neck all kinds of cricks." Fendrel bent his neck with a loud crack to emphasize his point. "Now that you're back, please be a dear and finish your work for me." Fendrel sniffed and regarded the papers disdainfully. "Or burn it. I really don't care, it's all the same to me - just get it off of my desk." He pushed the papers towards Cowan and then leaned back in his chair with a soft sigh. "And what on earth have you been up too all this time, anyway? It's been what, three weeks?"

"Manhunting, mostly," Cowan shrugged, " Wild goose chase after while goose chase. You remember that string of murders on the west end a year or so ago?"

"Mmhmm?"

"Well, I'd heard rumors that the culprit, a man named Bill Tanner, fled to hide out on the coast, past Araluan borders. I hunted my way into Stockton, a small village that is known to port more than one smuggler's crew. I thought if the man was anywhere, it would be somewhere like Stockton. But no such luck. I scoured around there for several days before the storm - and the shipwreck."

"Yes, I heard about that shipwreck a few days ago when those guards you sent came to inform me that my dungeon has new residents. Why didn't you just escort those brigands here yourself, anyway?" Fendrel asked.

Cowan shifted and looked at Martin for a moment before saying, "Well, smugglers weren't the only ones on that ship, it seems. Martin's apprentice, Crowley, found a young Hibernian boy washed ashore from the wreckage. He was alive, but nearly drowned. We stayed while the local doctors nursed him back to health."

Fendrel looked genuinely concerned. "The poor boy. A stowaway or prisoner of some sort, I assume. How is he?"

"Doing just fine, I'd think. We brought him with us back here."

Fendrel looked shocked. "Here? To Redmont?"

"Not just that," Martin spoke, "to your healer's wing. He's a broken shoulder that's mending, and Beatrice is seeing to it now."

Fendrel looked surprised once again. "Oh, well then. I suppose he is in good hands. But how will he get back to Hibernia from here, Cowan? Surely he didn't _mean_ to be abducted by smugglers?"

"No," Cowan said, "It was bad luck on his part." He paused, wondering if he should inform the Baron of his suspicion that Halt was running away from something. He decided he shouldn't. "Anyway, I'm sure we can figure something out for him once he's well again."

Fendrel seemed satiated, but Martin cast a look at his colleague. They had been friends for many years, and Martin knew when Cowan was bluffing.

"Very well, then, get this paper out of my sight, and we can go." Fendrel smiled and stood to his feet, stretching. "I'd like to meet this young Hibernian. What's his name, by the way?"

Cowan and Martin stood as well. "His name is Halt," Cowan said.

Suddenly, Fendrel's smile disappeared. "Halt, you say?" He asked very seriously.

Martin and Cowan paused, not really understanding the Baron's sudden change in countenance. "Yes, that's his name," Martin affirmed.

"And... How old would this... Halt be, do you think?"

"He told me he was nearly eighteen. Why? Is something wrong, milord?" Cowan was frowning as well, now.

"Well..." Fendrel stepped back towards his desk, "I... I don't know. It's only, this came in from the capitol just yesterday." He produced a letter with the royal seal waxed in at the bottom. Cowan took it and read the first few lines.

"The king of Clonmel? He's dead?"

"The _old_ king, mind you, king Farlon. His son, Ferris, was crowned king last week upon his father's death."

There was a bit of a pause. Cowan wasn't sure where Fendrel was taking this. He looked up at the Baron, wishing him to continue. Fedrel caught the look and took the letter back in hand.

"That's not all it says, you know. Read down a few paragraphs. Here, it explains,

_'The crown shall be officially passed down to his Majesty King Ferris of Clonmel in a coronation ceremony that will occur on Ferris' eighteenth birthday, August the ninth of this present year. From thenceforth all Clonmel shall exist under his rule and royal decree and all the peoples of Clonmel shall know him as their king. Although he has heretofore been second in line to the throne of Clonmel, and was thus at the time of his father's passing, the crown shall be claimed by Ferris O'Carrick in and of his own right, after his elder twin brother and rightful heir to the throne, Halt O'Carrick, fled his birthright and subsequently died on the night of his father's passing.' _"

Fendrel paused and looked up at the two rangers. Martin was whitefaced. Cowan looked only partially surprised. Fendrel read on,

_" 'On the night of his father's death, Halt O'Carrick fled from Dun Kilty, reportedly out of fear of the vast responsibility of the crown and grief over his father's death. He was not seen again until to days later when his body washed ashore. His tragic and unforeseen death passed the crown on to his younger twin, Ferris, who now steps forth to assume control of the monarchy.' "_

The ensuing silence seemed to last a lifetime. At last, Martin took a breath. "Well, that's very... Interesting. Frankly, I don't know whether I think it means anything or not. Surely there could be another Halt in Clonmel somewhere about his age?"

"He said himself it was an uncommon name," Cowan told them, "Besides, even if there were another Halt the same age as he is, what are the chances that he would just happen to be from the same region as the Prince Halt, have a bagful of clothes suited for royalty, and wash up ashore in Araluen mere days after the crown prince 'dies' and the younger prince assumes the throne?"

Both the Baron and Martin remained silent. "It... It would explain a great deal," Fendrel said.

"Not just a great deal, it would explain _everything._" Cowan said. "I'd already figured out that he was running away from something, but I didn't know what until now." He pointed to the letter.

"You're saying you think it's him? You think that that skinny little Hibernian is a misplaced prince?" Martin asked incredulously.

"Not a misplaced prince - an exported one. I don't know why he ran, but Halt doesn't seem the type to scare so easily." Cowan told him.

"Although everyone else seems content with the explanation of his death," Martin added.

"Which makes you wonder, who was it who proclaimed him dead in the first place?" Cowan finished.

Fendrel put out a hand and spoke with a tone of rationality. "Now, this is all well and good, theorizing that the crown prince of a foreign country could have possibly washed up on our doorstep when his entire homeland presumes him dead - possibly as result of some conspiracy -and crowns his younger sibling in his place, but I will not buy one lick of it until I hear it from the boy's mouth himself. The King won't either, for that matter, and you know as well as I do that if this boy you brought here _does _turn out to be the crown prince of Clonmel, the King will undoubtedly want to get involved."

"Of course, milord."

Fendrel sighed. "Cowan, you're the one who seems to know the most about him. Why don't you ask him?" he said after a moment.

"I can't ask him outright. If it _is_ him, he could think I mean him harm and run or do something stupid. If it _isn't_ him, then he could simply take Prince Halt's story and run with it, using it as an alias to protect him from whatever he's actually running from."

Martin sighed. "Then what do you propose we do?"

Cowan shrugged. "I'll talk with him later. I'm sure I can think of something."

* * *

It was well after lunch before they arrived back at Cowan's small cabin by the forest. Crowley, who had stayed behind (much to his dismay and chagrin) to practice his archery and knife-throwing, made a great show of bemoaning his hard, grueling apprenticeship, to the point of Martin eventually sending him outside to cut firewood just to get his melodramatic hide out of earshot. While the long-haired ranger stood by the stove chopping up vegetables for their dinner, Cowan looked over to where Halt sat, reading a book that Cowan had lent him - that was another quality that bespoke of royalty. Halt could read. _So this is what a prince looks like,_ Cowan thought, considering that Halt's unkempt hair, stubbly cheeks and small stature hardly looked like royalty. Then again, he didn't really think that Halt was what one might consider 'typical' royalty. "I see Beatrice fixed your arm up alright," Cowan said, and Halt's brown eyes flashed up from the pages.

"Oh, yes," He said, looking down at his new sling, which was considerably more comfortable than the old one, and the tight wrap that kept his shoulder and upper arm held in place. "It's a trifle more comfortable that the old one." He said.

Cowan smiled. "Aye, I'd imagine it is. Beatrice is good with things like that. Now, come on, the water barrel outside needs filling, and everyone else is busy. I know you've a bad arm, but surely you can help me with the one you've got left."

Though he could have protested, Halt merely shrugged, marked his place in the book, stood up and waited for Cowan to lead the way.

It was just the beginning of the summer weather in Araluen, so while it as warm outside, it was not unbearably so. Nevertheless, it didn't take long for Cowan and Halt to work up a sweat. Cowan showed the teen where the river was and which part had the best water. They'd made several trips to and from the river, Cowan carrying two buckets, Halt, one, when they arrived back at the river and Cowan set his load down. "Let's just rest a moment, shall we?" The ranger proposed. Halt didn't question him and gratefully set his bucket down so he could rotate his good shoulder around, shaking off the repeated strain of lugging a full water bucket around.

"Halt," Cowan said at length, "Why are you _really_ running away from Hibernia?"

The question caught Halt of guard. His eyes darted over to Cowan. The ranger fixed Halt with a determined look, but waited patiently for the teen to respond. When Halt looked away without speaking, Cowan sighed.

"I _know_ you ran away, Halt. I want to know why."

Halt fiddled with the edge of his sling, but remained silent.

Cowan sighed. "Fine. I'll ask you a different question: What is your family name, Halt? Your _real_ family name. I know it's not O'Connor."

Halt's gasp was more audible than he wanted to be. Of all the things that he had expected Cowan to say, that wasn't one of them. Now, stuck between a determined man, a flimsy lie, and a very harsh reality, Halt didn't know what to do. He froze. "I...I," he stuttered, "Of course it's O'Connor. I told you that. Why would I give you a name that didn't belong to me?"

"Halt," Cowan said darkly, "I know a great deal more than you think I do. I'm not stupid, I'm not ignorant, and I know a lie when I see one. I respect a man who is defending himself, and I respect a man who devises a bluff for his own safety, but I cannot and will not respect a man who lies outright to someone who saved his life and showed him friendship." Cowan's grey eyes were gravely serious, "Now, I'll ask you again, and I expect a straight, honest answer: What is your family name, Halt?"

Halt stared wide-eyed at Cowan for a long moment before he said, "You already know, don't you?"

Cowan nodded. "Aye, I do."

Halt's heart stumbled and froze in his chest. "Then why are you even asking me?"

"Because I want to make sure I'm right - I want you to say it yourself. What is your family name, Halt?"

Halt wrestled with his tongue for a long, tense moment before he could say it.

"O'Carrick."

* * *

A/N: Woohoo! Guess who just passed the 40,000 word count! Sorry, that's a big milestone for me. I'm really happy with this story so far. I hope y'all are enjoying reading it as much as I am writing it.

Read and review, please!


	16. To the Capitol

A/N: I tried to write for a different story, I swear. It didn't work. I just don't have any inspiration for anything else these days!

By the way, in case I never mentioned it before, thank you all for all of your reviews, especially all of you amazing readers who decided to leave me with a paragraph or more. It really means a lot to me. In all honesty, I write purely for enjoyment, but it is nice to know that others enjoy it too.

* * *

That evening, in low tones and as few words as he could possibly manage, Halt explained to Ranger Cowan how he was forced from his kingdom under pain of death by his own brother. He wrung his hand violently against his pantleg as he told the tale, but Cowan remained as composed as ever, calmly nodding at key points in Halt's story. After a long while, Halt finished talking and it was Cowan's turn to speak.

"Halt, your situation is… Unique, I must say. I want to help you in any way that I can, but I have a duty to perform." Cowan spread his hands in a shrugging gesture and looked at the former prince, who looked quite un-princelike at that moment. "I'm sure you know what comes next."

Halt sighed. He did, indeed. It wasn't technically protocol, but it was common sense for a ruling monarch to keep an eye on any foreign nobility – deposed or otherwise – that fell onto the shores of his kingdom. The King of Araluan would be no different.

"Yes," Halt said in a small voice, not meeting Cowan's gaze.

"I'll escort you to the capitol as soon as your arm is well enough to travel." It seemed to end the conversation. Cowan put his hands on his knees in preparation to rise from his seat, but he stopped when Halt spoke.

"Cowan?" the boy ventured,

"Yes?"

"Who… Who all knows? I mean, here, in Araluan, who all knows that I'm here?"

"So far as I know, it's just you, me, Martin, and Fendrel."

"Oh, okay." Cowan almost smiled when he recognized the slight relief in Halt's voice. "You don't have to tell Crowley if you don't want to, Halt. Now come on, we'd best get inside. We've a long week ahead of us – you especially."

* * *

"It's him." Cowan confided in Martin quietly that night, long after Crowley and Halt were fast asleep.

"What?" Martin peered over his reading spectacles.

"Halt, he's…" Cowan lowered his voice and leaned across the table. "He's the one that Fendrel was talking about."

There was a pause, and Martin set aside the letter he'd been reading and took of his glasses. "I see. You heard it from his own mouth, I assume?"

"Aye, I did. Frightened as a cornered doe when he said it, but he stood his ground." Cowan glanced over to where Halt was sleeping easily on the couch. "He's got courage, that one." He looked back to Martin, "but he's an O'Carrick, sure enough."

"_The_ O'Carrick, you mean." Martin sighed, fiddling with the stems of his glasses. "Well, I can't say I'm relieved to know. This is a true mess we've on our hands, Cowan,"

"A true mess? No, a _true_ mess would have been for anyone else to have found him before we did. Imagine, a prince stranded in a strange foreign country amidst a gaggle of farmers with no one to know his real trouble."

"He wouldn't last a week, if that," Martin said.

"Oh no, he'd last, alright. Halt's a fighter, that much is certain. But his situation would never have been solved. In truth, Crowley probably saved him in more ways than one when he found him on that beach. He'd be utterly lost otherwise." Cowan cast another look at Halt before continuing, "I'm taking him to the capitol as soon as I can."

Martin nodded. He'd expected as much. "Would you like me to come with you?"

Cowan shook his head. "No, you need to take your apprentice back to Whitby. I'll go alone."

"John? He's perfectly capable of going to Araluen, you know. He's grown quite a bit since he joined me last year."

"I'm not worried at all about Crowley's abilities, Martin, it's Halt." Cowan sighed. "Halt doesn't want Crowley to know who he is. Seems to think it'll change how they get on together." Cowan chuckled. "For however completely different they are, it seems Halt's taken a liking to your apprentice, and doesn't wish to lose the first friend he's made in Araluan because of his background. Frankly, I can't blame him."

Martin nodded in understanding. "A friend, is it?" He glanced at Halt and smiled. "I have to say, Crowley seems to get along well with him. I won't tell him anything, if Halt doesn't wish it."

"Good, then. Make arrangements for you and Crowley to return to Whitby. I'll speak with Beatrice tomorrow and see when she thinks Halt's arm will be up for the exertion of travel."

Martin mustered a look of incredulousness. "You? Speak? With Beatrice?" He snorted. "Good luck with that one, mate."

Cowan glared and sniffed in a dignified way. "There's a first time for everything."

* * *

"No. Absolutely not." Beatrice whipped around walked off without a second glance, her wild hair slapping Cowan in the chin as she went.

"Bea, please, this is important," Cowan put a hand to his head. They'd shared all of two civil words since he'd arrived in the healer's wing, which consisted of a 'hello' from either party. After that cordial greeting, the conversation had descended into that which normally inhabited the conversations between Ranger Cowan and Healer Beatrice: argumentation.

"Cowan, the boy's been here what, two days? And you're all ready to cart him off again?"

"I told you, it's important."

"How important? Important enough to deprive him of his rest? Important enough to re-re-re-re-break his shoulder? Important enough to ignore all the hard work _I_ did on that arm and have him camping out in some godforsaken forest with _you_ for his only company? Really, Cowan, it's like you _enjoy_ ruining people's lives."

Cowan ignored the jibe. "Yes, actually, it _is_ that important."

Beatrice stopped suddenly and turned to regard him with new interest. She'd shared enough arguments with Cowan to know his dialogue patterns. If he _knew_ that he was being ridiculous (which he usually did, the prat) he wouldn't assert his position outright. He'd skirt around the details and nit-pick her phrasing and emotional inferences. He only held his ground this firmly when he was being serious. Carefully, Beatrice took a small step forward and looked up straight into Cowan's eyes. He was being serious.

She looked down for a moment, composed herself into a more businesslike demeanor, and looked back up at him again. "Alright, then. Out with it. What's so important that you have to drag an injured Hibernian halfway across the country for?"

In his seriousness, Cowan looked suddenly uncomfortable. He fidgeted slightly and winced when he said, "I can't tell you."

Beatrice's eyebrows rose at that. "Oh." She said. She and Cowan had known each other a long time – a very long time – and while they had a reputation for being insufferably prickly around each other, Beatrice was used to holding a special part of Cowan's confidence. Classified information or not, she was used to hearing all sorts of secrets of both personal and national sort from Redmont's Ranger. Now, at Cowan's blatant, albeit uncomfortable refusal, she was dumbstruck.

"I'm sorry, Bea, I…" Cowan knew he couldn't say that he _should _tell her, because in all honesty, a lot of the things Cowan told her were technically national secrets. "I just… I can't. It's… It's different this time."

Beatrice's face had softened momentarily, only to sculpt itself into a picture of concern and curiosity. "Ranger business, I guess." She said, crossing her arms about herself.

Cowan shrugged. "Something like that."

There was a pause. "It's not any sort of life threatening, is it?" She asked.

"No, not anymore. But I can't…" Cowan sighed. "Look, Bea, I just need you to help me get this boy to the capitol as soon as possible. I'm afraid that I can't tell you much else." She looked put out. "Please," Cowan pleaded, stepping forward to take her hand in a bold gesture that emphasized the seriousness of his request.

She sighed and looked thoughtful. After a long while, she looked up at him. "Let me come with you."

That was the last thing he'd expected. "What?"

"Let me come with you," she repeated. "Halt is injured, but he needs to be somewhere. I'm not going to leave the boy to _your _tender medical mercies, but I can't allow such a… pressing emergency of… whatever it is to go unattended by my leave. So, I'll come with you. You can tend to your clandestine business, and I can ensure the healthy recovery of my patient."

Cowan's ears began to ring after the first few minutes of silence that followed. Eventually, he sighed resignedly. _Why does she have to be so darn sensible?_ He wondered to himself. She seemed to read his mind.

"If you have a better option, please, tell me. But until then, I'm not letting you leave." It sounded almost like a threat.

"You know I can't tell you anything about this… emergency, even if you come with me."

"I never said that you could."

"If you went, you'd be camping out in the open, with little privacy."

"I can handle myself just fine, Cowan. I'm a grown-up."

"And once we get to the capitol, I can't say how long we'll be there."

"I've been meaning to take a road trip to see my old master, anyhow."

Cowan sighed. She was relentless, stubborn, and much too perceptive for her own good. So then, why was he so relieved that she was insisting on coming along? He hadn't said anything, but Beatrice broke into a smile when she read something in his eyes.

"I'll pack my things, and see you in two days dawn at your cabin."

"Wait," Cowan protested, "I never said you were coming."

Beatrice tossed a smug grin in his direction. "You never said I wasn't."

She did have a point, there.

* * *

Saying goodbye to Crowley and Martin had been harder than Halt would have expected. He'd only known the two for a little over a week, and yet he felt as though they were some of the closest things to friends he'd ever had. Crowley especially. Despite with all his odd quirks and outlandish behavior and a personality that was completely opposite to Halt's, the young Hibernian was rather torn at seeing the apprentice go.

"Well, it was nice getting to know you, Halt." Crowley said in an uncharacteristically solemn way, "Maybe I'll see you around?"

Halt's lips twitched upwards in a small smile. "Maybe," he said. _If I don't get myself imprisoned or killed first_.

Crowley smiled back. "I hope so. Well, goodbye, then." He mounted up next to Martin, who was waiting for his apprentice to make final goodbyes. After a few final waves and tossed farewells, master and apprentice rode out of Cowan's property and down the north-bound road. Halt watched them until their horses were no more than small flickers of shadow against the horizon. Eventually, he turned back to Cowan's cottage. He felt guilty for not telling Crowley who he really was, but only slightly. He'd only known the other boy for a week or so, and besides, Halt's status as Prince was behind him, now. It shouldn't bear any difference on his present relationships.

Then again, he realized, it most certainly did. After all, the following morning he would be handed over to the Araluan King for no other reason besides that he _was _a Prince, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

"Hungry?" Cowan poked his head out the door. When Halt didn't answer straightaway, Cowan continued, "Well, you'd better be, because I'm not eating all of this by myself. Besides, we won't have much time to eat breakfast tomorrow. Now come and get it while it's still hot."

* * *

True to what Cowan had said, the next morning Halt hardly had time to eat anything – or do anything at all besides pull an oversized tunic over his sleepy head and try to stay awake as he followed Cowan out to the horses. Healer Beatrice was already dressed neatly in her traveling garb and mounted up on a rather small grey. Cowan had informed Halt the previous evening that she would be coming along to aid Halt with his arm. Although Halt personally felt that he could manage perfectly well on his own, he wisely kept any comments to himself.

"You much of a morning person, Halt?" Beatrice asked with the hint of a smile as she watched him drowsily situate the saddlepacks on their borrowed chestnut.

"Usually," he said hoarsely, "but I wasn't aware that hours this dark were considered 'morning' until Cowan woke me."

Beatrice smiled. "Fair enough. Well, are you ready to go or not, Cowan?"

"Oh, don't get antsy, Bea. Yes, I'm ready – now let's move, before Halt falls asleep again."

They rode for hours without much conversation. A few times, Halt found himself nodding off and for a while, he actually dozed off on Cowan's back, but the Ranger either didn't notice or didn't mind enough to comment. They stopped occasionally to water the horses and stretch their legs. Each time, Beatrice would check Halt's shoulder like a mother hen and Cowan would inevitably start an argument with her. Through the day, Halt had begun to realize that their arguments were not very serious, and more akin to banter than real disputes. Some of the things they quibbled about were just plain ridiculous. Still, he didn't bother mentioning it. He was pretty sure they already knew just how silly they were being.

They were about two-thirds of the way to Castle Araluen when they stopped to set up camp for the night. That evening, Halt caught a few moments alone with Cowan.

"Cowan," he asked, looking around to make sure that Beatrice wasn't in ear shot. "What… What do you think he'll do?"

The Ranger looked up at the boy. "Who?"

"The King," Halt said. He fiddled with his own fingers. "What do you think he'll do with me?"

Cowan regarded him and his expression softened. After a moment of thought, he shrugged. "I can't say – I'm not the King."

Well that was utterly unhelpful, Halt thought.

Cowan continued, "Honestly, I don't know what he'll do. He won't harm you, and I'm quite sure he won't ship you back to Hibernia. But honestly, I don't know if any Araluan monarch has had to deal with a situation like this, Halt. I simply can't say." He looked up at saw the uncertainty lurking just beneath Halt's guarded features, and added in an encouraging tone, "But King Gerald is a good King, Halt – you've nothing to fear from him."

In truth, Cowan's words did little if anything to dilute the anxiety that Halt felt growing as they neared the capitol, but he appreciated the Ranger's genuine care. Halt was naturally suspicious of all people, but for whatever reason, in the few days that he'd known him, Halt had come to regard Cowan as a trustworthy friend and ally. Halt didn't know how much political influence Rangers had, but he hoped that Cowan would stick with him all the way through… Well, through whatever lay ahead of him at Castle Araluen. Halt was sure that he'd need it.

With that cheery thought, Halt curled up in his blankets and squeezed his eyes shut. In the back of his mind, part of him hoped that he'd wake up in a different place.

Of course, he didn't. He awoke the next morning to the sound of bickering, which only half surprised him. As soon as he interrupted the two, the ranger and the healer abandoned their debate (which had changed subjects twice before Halt could travel from his bedroll to the fire) and promptly started packing up camp. Having previously proved himself completely useless when it came to making and breaking camp, Halt was left out of the ritual, but he felt obligated to do what he could to help, so he took their horses to a nearby creek for a morning drink.

He was just considering the soothing effect of the sound of flowing water when Beatrice unexpectedly appeared behind him, caring several empty canteens with her.

"How are you this morning, Halt?" She asked conversationally. When she wasn't around Cowan, Halt found Beatrice to be a very caring, kind sort. By now, he'd learned that when she asked how he was, this primarily concerned his shoulder.

"Well enough. The pain has lessened some since last week." He glanced down at the sling.

She smiled. "I'd like to think so – if it hadn't, why, I'd be no healer at all."

There was a comfortable silence between the two as Beatrice stooped to fill the canteens. Halt thought about offering to help, but then realized that the horses might wander off if he released their reigns. They probably wouldn't, but Halt didn't want to take the chance – he already felt useless as it was. He didn't want to lose their horses as well.

"So," Beatrice asked from her knealing position, "What's a young Hibernian like yourself got to do at the Araluan capitol?" She glanced up at him.

Halt inexplicably felt a red-hot blush cover his face. _Cowan told her!_ Was all he could think. When he tried to answer, his mouth betrayed him and only gibberish came out. "I… I, eh, that is…"

"Oh, don't hurt yourself," Beatrice stopped him. "Cowan didn't tell me much, you know. Just said it was 'ranger buisness' and that it was important. You don't have to spill the beans if you don't want to. Not some sort of Criminal, are you?" She glanced at him suspiciously. He shook his head defensively, and she smiled. "I didn't actually think you were, anyway. I won't interrogate you anymore. Just know that no matter what it is that's got Cowan dragging you up to Araluen, I'll be here to take care of you if you need it, alright?" She sent him a look of genuine concern, and he believed her. He nodded. "Good," She said, then sent a frown at his bound arm. "But I'd be obliged if you didn't hold the horses with that hand. It'd be a shame for one of them to spook and yank your shoulder out of its set. Again."

"Yes, Ma'am," Halt said in a reactionary tone, quickly shifting the reigns from his restrained right hand into his left.

She smiled as she corked the last of the canteens. "That's what I like to hear. Now come on, Cowan's probably all hot-headed and ready to go."

* * *

Halt had thought that Castle Redmont was an impressive structure when he'd first seen it, but compared to the sight that had just risen above the horizon, Redmont now appeared no more than an insignificant stack of bricks.

The flying buttresses and soaring towers dominated the skyline profile of Castle Araluen, its edges punctuated by massive walls and turrets, where Halt could just see soldiers standing at post. The sunlight lit up the walls in stark contrast to the sea of grass that rolled in green waves all around. The Keep stood sturdily in the center, a tall, thick tower, with a plethora of other round towers around it. There were arches and multi-storied buildings and streets spanning out from the center in all directions, and together with the imposing walls, they formed a fortress that appeared much more like a city than a castle. The sheer size of it all sent Halt's mind reeling. He'd never before seen its like.

"It's impressive alright," Beatrice said from his side, "but you might want to close your mouth, or they'll all think you're mad."

Halt blushed and snapped his teeth together. He hadn't been aware that he'd been gawking. Cowan only laughed.

As they drew closer, Halt spotted a watery glimmer sunken just beneath the earth and knew that there would be a moat surrounding the castle. Now that he noticed, he could also see the thick chains pulled taught between the castle's man entrance and something at the near end of the moat – he supposed they supported a drawbridge there. The towers seemed to grow even larger and more imposing as they drew nearer to the castle, and Halt felt a mix of anxiety and fear knot itself into his gut. He was a foreigner here - an outsider. What would become of him in this place?

"Stop and identify yourselves," a guard called out to them when they were almost across the bridge.

Cowan nudged his horse slightly forward. "I am Cowan Shirley, King's Ranger, and this is Beatrice Fletcher, Head Healer at Castle Redmont."

The guard tipped his head in respect to the lady, but did not fail to notice Halt's small form hiding behind Cowan. "And your friend?" He asked, nodding toward Halt. Cowan didn't even look back at the boy.

"He's my friend, as you say. Surely that's enough."

The guard seemed reluctant, but he realized that it probably wasn't wise to challenge a King's Ranger. "Of course, sir. Welcome to Castle Araluen. Sirs, my lady," he gave a signal, and the heavy timber and bronze gates began to swing open. While they did, Cowan turned to the guard.

"What's your name, lad?"

The soldier looked slightly surprised, but replied, "Robert, sir."

"Well then, Robert, I'd like you to do me a favor and send word to the King that I am here."

Robert's eyes widened. "The King?" He squeaked. Cowan nodded.

"Aye, and tell him it's important." When Robert hesitated, Cowan jerked his head toward the Castle Keep. "Well, go on! I'm heading there now, and I think he'd like to know it. Your friend can keep your post until you get back."

Robert shared a look with his fellow gatekeeper, shrugged slightly, and darted off in the direction of King Gerald's throne room.

"I'll just take care of accommodations, shall I? And housing for the horses. And supplies. And everything else that you two are just too busy to take care of." Beatrice said sarcastically. Cowan affected not to notice her dangerous tone.

"Oh, that's very kind of you, Bea. Thank you."

Beatrice flushed up to the tips of her ears and muttered something about 'ungrateful, ludicrous rangers' before delving into a brooding silence. Halt wanted to look back at her in apology, but his gaze was drawn instead to the bustling castle yard.

As castle yards went, it was gigantic. There were buildings everywhere and arches overhead that supported second-level walkways and structures. There were many people, commoners and nobles alike, bustling about every which way, talking and shopping and haggling and running and going about their daily chores. Even in Dun Kilty, a fortress surrounded by villages and farms, things were never so lively or busy, except perhaps at fall market.

"…The sooner, the better," Cowan was saying. Halt reeled, wondering if he'd missed anything important.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asked embarrassedly.

Cowan peered back over his shoulder. "Kind of hard to hear anything around here, isn't it? Don't worry, it's not so bad on the southern side of the castle. I was saying that we'll go straight to seek an audience with the King, now, and see what he has to say about you. The sooner, the better."

Halt's stomach leaped into his throat. _Now?_ So there would be no messing about, then. No chance to think of what he might say, no break where Halt could rehearse a speech concerning his predicament, no opportunity to plan ahead. Just dumped in front of the king in his traveler's clothes and expected to explain himself to the head of a nation. He swallowed hard, wishing he were anywhere else besides riding toward the castle keep.

"Don't worry," Cowan seemed to sense his sudden fear, "I'll be with you the whole time. Now let's go."

* * *

Gerald detested paperwork. The tedium involved in such a task was positively mind-numbing, and he really preferred to spend his few free hours delved into a good book or with a close friend, not signing and sealing three dozen documents simply because he was the only one qualified to do so. The stuffy protocol involved in Royal affairs was ridiculous. Perhaps he could teach his son to forge his signature, and _he _could sit around signing and sealing all day. After all, if the boy was going to be king one day, he would have to get used to kingly paperwork sometime or other - this would just be a head start. Yes, it was a splendid idea, Gerald thought to himself – but he mustn't let Lord Philip know, or the Chamberlain would throw a fit. Come to think of it, the Barons receiving his royal decrees probably wouldn't be too happy, either, if they found out that a twelve year-old was signing their king's mail for him. Gerald frowned at the stack of letters. But Duncan was a _Royal_ twelve year-old, and surely that held some weight in their bureaucratic minds. Hmm. He'd have to think on that one. In the meantime,

"Your Majesty?" his secretary, Joren, peeked his head into the study and effectively interrupted the King's train of thought. Gerald inwardly sighed. He'd probably bring him another stack of paperwork to tend to.

"Yes, Joren?"

"Uhm, there's someone here to see you - Ranger Shirley of Redmont fief, your Majesty."

Gerald raised his eyebrows. He hadn't spoken with Cowan in quite some time. He wondered if he was as much of a maverick as he remembered him being. "Is he? Well, send him on in." Joren nodded and ducked out of the room, returning a moment later with Cowan in tow. Cowan made his bow brief and succinct as he entered, and didn't bother sitting down once he was in the room.

"It's good to see you again, Ranger Cowan. What brings you to Castle Araluan? Some business with Commandant Randalf again?"

"Actually, no, your Majesty. Randalf doesn't even know I'm here. I sent a messenger ahead – did he not tell you I was coming?"

Gerald looked thoughtful. "If you mean the young gatekeeper, then yes, he said something about a Ranger, however, he failed to mention your name. I thought it was Randalf requesting another meeting. Apparently not. What is it that you came to see me about?"

Cowan glanced at Joren. The secretary cleared his throat.

"I'll just be going then, your Majesty."

Gerald smiled at him. "Thank you, Joren."

Once he'd left, Cowan turned back to the King. "I came to see you about a certain letter you sent out to your baronies recently, Majesty." Cowan handed the parchment over the desk.

Gerald frowned at it and opened it.

"The one about Clonmel? There's hardly anything alarming about normal succession, is there, Cowan?" He scanned the letter, and seeing nothing out of place, looked back up at Cowan with a confused expression.

"Well, no, your Majesty. Except that he's not actually dead."

"What, King Farlon?"

"No, Farlon's son, Prince Halt, the rightful heir. He's not dead."

There was a long silence as Gerald processed what Cowan was telling him. The water clock standing in one corner of the study dripped loudly as the King stared, dumbfounded, at his Ranger.

"Well, if he's not dead, and he's not on his throne, then were the devil is he?"

A small, nervous smile lit on Cowan's features. The Ranger took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Well, your Majesty, he's currently waiting outside in your antechamber."

Silence took reign once more. Gerald had a hard time disguising his shocked expression. Usually calm and composed, Cowan shifted his weight nervously foot to foot as he waited for the King's response.

"Oh," The King said after a while. He thought the word utterly unsuited for expressing his current state of mind, but it was all he could muster. "Is that all?" he added sarcastically. Cowan forced a smile.

"Yes, your Majesty.

Gerald looked down at the stack of paperwork on his desk, and regretted his earlier distain. He'd never dealt with an alive-dead (undead?) royal before, but he suspected that it would be a tad more difficult than signing and sealing documents all day. He sighed. He had so hoped for a break to read his book. He really would have to teach Duncan to forge his signature as soon as he got the chance. He looked back up at Cowan.

"Well, if he's here, I suppose I might as talk to him. Bring him in."

* * *

A/N: LONGEST CHAPTER EVER. Okay, not ever, but it was pretty long.

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed it. If you did (and even if you didn't) drop me a review. I'd really appreciate it.

R&R, please!


	17. Only Politics

A/N: Wow. These past few weeks have been crazy. I'm officially moved into college and all of my classes have started. I am BUSY. And I'll be even busier once I start workstudy next week. But I'm enjoying it all! If not a bit homesick, I'm enjoying college so far. Unfortunately, updates are sure to be few and far between from here on out. However, I'll be sure to write in my free time (if there exists such a thing for a college student) and update when I can.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

Perhaps the worst part about the wait was the staring. Although Cowan had attempted to make their entrance as discreet as possible, eventually Halt had to be introduced and, seeing as it was the _king _they were trying to talk to, neither the ranger nor his Hibernian friend could lie about Halt's origins. It wasn't so bad in Hibernia. Although people tended to stare at Halt because he was the Prince, he'd learned to live with it. But now, in Araluen, he wasn't merely a prince – he was a _dead_ prince. Or at least, he was supposed to be dead. And apparently, not-dead dead princes were something that loitering guards and assistants could only ogle at.

Halt let out a slow breath and clenched his jaw. Cowan had left a few minutes ago, leaving Halt in the silent antechamber with only the King's scribe and a few guards to keep him company, along with the scritch-scratching of the scribe's quill as he scribbled aimless notes onto a sheet of paper. How the man could see what he was writing, Halt wasn't quite sure, because his eyes were transfixed on Halt's undead self. _Does he ever blink?_ Halt wondered to himself.

Just when he thought he couldn't bear the silent scrutiny any more, Cowan slipped out of the King's study.

"He wants to speak to you." He said, stepping forward to fiddle with Halt's collar and brush out his dirty hair. "Don't say anything until he asks you to. I didn't explain any of your story – I thought you'd ought to do the telling. Try to keep it brief, and don't forget to bow when you go in." He paused, registered the panic in Halt's eyes, and smiled. "Oh, and don't worry," he slapped the prince on the shoulder. "He's not going to hurt you."

"Why am I not comforted?" Halt asked absently as Cowan turned him toward the study.

"I don't know," the Ranger said, "but it doesn't matter. Now get moving!" He nudged the teen in the back, and Halt gave him a withering look. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and recalled with difficulty his lessons in royal etiquette. _But I'm not the royal this time,_ he thought, _he is._ He closed his eyes and relaxed his features into a regal but expressionless air. He took a strong step forward, then another.

He paused at the door when he realized that Cowan wasn't following. "Aren't you coming?" He asked, his royal mask now broken with surprise.

Cowan shook his head. "This is something you need to do on your own, lad."

Halt sighed and nodded. He replaced his mask and opened the door.

The Araluan king was not at all the picture of royalty that Halt had been expecting. He had the fixtures of royalty – the gold circlet, the mantle, the robes and the lush office. But behind it all, Halt was first struck by the image of a middle-aged man with ink-stained fingers and a mussed hairdo. His green eyes stood out, prominent even through the slightly disordered appearance, and they roamed over Halt with a calculating sheen. Then, they squinted up in a slight smile.

"You are Prince Halt." It was a statement, not a question.

Halt bowed slowly. "I was, your majesty," Halt said, grimacing slightly at the contrast between his accent and the King's. "I no longer have any claim to royalty."

"Is that so?" the King arched an eyebrow. "Did your father disown you?"

"No," Halt told him plainly, "I abdicated."

The King's eyebrows rose. "Everyone else seems to think that you died." Halt tried to find something to say. He couldn't. The King continued, "Faking one's own death is quite the… Theatrical way to abdicate. But if you truly wished everyone to think you dead, you wouldn't be speaking to me right now. So, how is it that you abdicate one day, die the next, and somehow end up in my study after it all?"

Halt didn't speak for several moments. "It's… It's a bit of a long story, your Majesty." He said nervously.

The King sighed wearily. "Very well. Have a seat, Prince Halt."

Halt gratefully took his seat. "Please, Majesty, it's just Halt, now."

The King regarded him, then nodded. "Very well then, 'just Halt'," He said kindly, "you can start at the beginning. I want the full story, if you can manage it."

Halt took a long breath and gathered his thoughts. "Well, I suppose I should start by telling you about my brother. Ferris and I are identical twins. I am the elder by seven minutes."

And what a cursed seven minutes they were.

* * *

When she found him, he was pacing back and forth like an anxious mother.

"Cowan, you'll wear a hole in the King's carpet. Sit down."

"Don't be ridiculous, Bea. Besides, he's more than rich enough to patch a worn rug."

"You're not nervous, are you?" She asked, a sarcastic aftertaste to her words.

Cowan stopped pacing and rounded on her. "Nervous? Of course not." He scratched at his beard and looked at the study door with a worried frown. "You don't think he'll interrogate the boy, do you?"

Beatrice sighed and rose. "You," she said, lacing an arm through his, "are worse than a pregnant mother. And believe me, I've seen a few in my trade. Now come and sit down."

Reluctantly, Cowan did. Where the two would normally be arguing, they now sat in companionable silence, Cowan strung tight as a wire, Beatrice trying to contain her annoyance at his irrational nerves. "What is it you see in that boy?" She wondered aloud to him.

He looked over to her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Halt. You obviously see something in him you care about. I've never seen you get this anxious over anyone. You've only known him for a few weeks – what is it that makes you care so much?"

"He's a good strong boy," Cowan said. Beatrice continued to stare up at him.

"And?" she prompted.

Cowan sighed and looked down at her. "And… He's Hibernian, for one thing."

"Ah. I figured you might be experiencing some homeland sympathy. What else?"

Cowan scoffed loudly. "What is it with you, lass? Is your whole life meant to pester me?"

"Yes. Now tell me." She took his hand.

He quieted and paused before he said, more quietly than before, "He's a great lad, Bea. He was just in the wrong life. He didn't choose this – any of it. He has what it takes to be a great man one day. And I want to help him."

"There, you see," Beatrice smiled up at him. "I knew it. You see a bit of yourself in him, don't you?" Cowan didn't say anything, but his silence was enough answer for her. "I told you," she said.

He just shook his head. "How is it," he asked her quietly, "that you can hear what I say even when I don't say it?"

She smiled back. "I could tell you. But that wouldn't be any fun, now would it?"

He was about to start an argument, but at that moment, the King himself opened the door to his study, and both Cowan and Beatrice reacted by jumping to their feet.

"Ranger Cowan, I – Ah, Healer Beatrice, how lovely to see you – that is, Cowan, I need a word with you about Halt. Beatrice, would you be so kind to keep Halt company for a bit?"

"Of course, your Majesty," Beatrice said, flustered. She'd only spoken to the King a few times personally, and was shocked that he remembered her. She smiled at Halt as he exited the King's study, and put a motherly hand on his shoulder as he came to stand next to her. Cowan nodded at Halt and followed the King back into his study.

"Did it go well?" Beatrice asked the teen.

Halt sighed heavily. "I hope so."

* * *

"So?" Cowan asked, ignoring the fact that he probably shouldn't be talking to his king so casually.

Gerald looked over at him. "What?"

"Halt. What will you do with him?"

The king sighed and sank into his chair. "I was hoping you could tell me."

Cowan tilted his head. "You are the king, your Majesty."

"Really? Well, thank you for reminding me," Gerald said sarcastically. He ran a hand over his forehead. "Frankly, I don't know what to do, Cowan."

"Well, did he ask for anything particularly difficult?"

The King scoffed. "Difficult? Well, under normal circumstances, no. But in this mess? It's as difficult as anything. He's asked for sanctuary here in Araluen."

"Permanent?"

"He didn't say. I think he's still trying to figure out his situation as much as we are, the poor boy."

Cowan nodded. "Aye, he is. But is it really so hard to grant him a place to stay here?"

Gerald shook his head. "Well, if he'd just come ashore and stowed away in some inn and not made much of a fuss, then no, it wouldn't be hard at all. But with him coming to me personally… It makes it more troublesome."

Cowan didn't understand. "How so?"

Gerald shrugged at him. "As you said, I am the king. If I let a disposed Hibernian Prince stay in my country – perhaps even permanently as a citizen – there could be all sorts of political backlash. If the nobles ever find out, they'll see him as some sort of threat or conspiracy between myself and Hibernia. Utter rubbish, of course, but that's how the court works. And if the court of _Clonmel_ ever finds out – worse yet, the _Crown _ of Clonmel, they'll think I'm a traitor to our alliance. If I let Halt stay here, I am harboring a very powerful foreign royal figure in my domain. And that, as seen by other courts, would amount to either conspiracy or treasonous deceit." Gerald sighed again. "Halt may have willingly abdicated and given the crown to his brother, but I can tell you this, Cowan: if ever King Ferris finds out that his brother still lives, he will not sleep until Halt is dead. And I will be the only power standing between them. I cannot put myself or my people in that kind of position."

Cowan shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring the King's ominous tone. "Then don't."

Gerald was gobsmacked. "I beg your pardon?"

"If you don't want to jeopardize the ties between Clonmel and Araluen, then don't. All you have to do is deny that you ever met Prince Halt in the first place."

Gerald regarded the Ranger with a cool gaze. "You're suggesting that I lie - to my court, my people, and myself."

"It's not a lie," Cowan said, "you have never met Prince Halt, not during his father's reign and certainly not after his unfortunate death. You have no ties to the late Crown Prince of Clonmel whatever." He paused, and added, "The fact that you have just admitted national sanctuary to Halt, the young Hibernian refugee is a merely a happy coincidence – one that Clonmel's royalty hardly needs know about. But as for this _Prince _Halt, well, he's been dead for nearly a month now, hasn't he?" Cowan looked up at the King with an innocent expression.

There was a long pause, in which Cowan continued to look at his monarch with mock naivety and Gerald glared begrudgingly up at the Ranger.

"Why I ever started taking counsel from an upstart like you, I haven't the foggiest idea, but as much as I hate to admit it, you are right." The King sighed. "But I'll have you know I detest such half-lies, Cowan."

Cowan chuckled. "It's not lying, your majesty. I believe it is called 'politics'."

Gerald continued to glare. "Joren!" He called, and the secretary promptly appeared in the room.

"Your Majesty?"

"Have a document drawn up, affirming the fact that I have never met the Hibernian Prince, Halt O'Carrick, nor spoken with him, nor afforded him sanctuary, nor harbored him from anyone in any way. Halt O'Carrick, Crown Prince of Clonmel, Hibernia, is, to my best knowledge, dead as reported by the Crown of Clonmel upon Ferris' ascension to the throne."

"Right away, your Majesty."

Gerald glanced about his desk. "And bring me some fresh wax."

"Yes, your Majesty." Joren made a quick note with his quill. He opened the door to exit, but the King stopped him.

"Oh, and Joren?"

"Yes, your Majesty?"

"Have you ever seen that boy before in your life?" Gerald nodded to where Halt was sitting with Beatrice in the anteroom. Joren looked over at the dark-haired teenager and turned back to the King with a clear expression.

"What boy, your Majesty?" he asked pleasantly.

Gerald half-hid a smile. "Thank you, Joren. That'll be all."

"Very well, your Majesty." With that, the secretary walked calmly out of the room, snapping his fingers to get the scribe's attention. He hardly batted an eyelid over the international fiasco that had just landed on his desk. After all, as the Ranger had pointed out, it was only politics.

* * *

A/N: I had plans to make this chapter longer, but this seemed to be a good place to end it. Unfortunately, I can't tell you when the next update will be. I'll write when I can, and hopefully update soon.

Read and Review, please!


	18. Spirit

**A/N:**Wow. It has been a _long_ time. Too long. I must apologize to everyone for taking such an unexpected hiatus from my RA fictions. I was was bitten by an unforeseen Merlin bug sometime last semester when the fourth series started airing and I realized that I had somehow missed _all of the third series_, so I had to watch up and developed a subsequent obsession. I've been distracted from this fic by some Merlin fanfic I've been writing, including the fully-completed _Trust_, which I am rather proud to have cranked out in record time, and its sequel, _A Second Chance_. If you like my RA stuff and are a Merlin fan, please check them out!

But I digress. I've been getting lots of PMs asking for updates for this fiction and to be honest, I really miss it. So, here it goes: an update, (_**FINALLY)**_

Enjoy!

* * *

It was settled.

Halt could stay in Araluen, permanently, if he wanted to, and could even obtain citizenship. The choice was up to him. He, for one, was far too overwhelmed by it all to properly react. The past month was a huge, life-altering blur to Halt, and whenever he tried to think about it, his head began to spin.

He was bound to stay at Castle Araluen as a guest (though not officially, of course) until his shoulder was fully healed. Luckily, the break no longer caused him pain, and Beatrice had replaced the tight plaster bind with a simple sling. Part of Halt was happy to regain his health and freedom, but another part shuddered from the day when Beatrice released him from her care. His shoulder was the only reason he was here at the castle – the only reason he had a roof over his head or food on his table was because of the hospitality of others, and now, as he was about to be released from their care, one thought resonated in Halt's mind:

What in the world would he do next?

He'd been raised as a prince. He didn't have a trade or any knowledge of hard labor, and while he could fight decently, Halt wasn't stupid enough to believe any battlemaster would accept a scrawny foreigner as a trainee. With no standing in the court, his princely experience would do him no good, and whatever political and strategic skills he'd acquired over his lifetime would go to waste. In all, Halt had little to no options in Araluen. He'd half a mind to go wandering off somewhere else, perhaps to run into fortune, but then, where would he go? He had no money, no funds, no connections anywhere. He was adrift in the biggest storm of his life with nothing to latch onto. However, without having to try too hard, Halt processed this new information the way he took most things in life: quietly, solemnly, privately; no matter how much internal conflict he experienced for the fact.

Only Cowan could really see through his shell of calm.

"Where're you going?" The ranger came up beside Halt to help him tack up his horse, which Halt had been attempting one-handed.

"Don't know." The teen clipped. "Somewhere quiet, for a bit."

"Aye, I understand that," Cowan smiled. He watched Halt work for a bit, squinting at the boy's head as though it would help him perceive Halt's thoughts. "Something's eating you," Cowan said eventually, abandoning any attempt at subtlety. "Out with it, then."

Halt turned to face Cowan, both taken off guard and refreshed by the man's frankness. After studying the taller ranger for a moment, Halt sighed and looked away. "I don't know what I'll do," He said, his good hand frustrating the leather on a buckle, "after my arm heals. Where I'll go."

"We'll find you a job," Cowan said hopefully.

Halt was shaking his head before the man finished. "I know nothing of any trade, or labor for that matter, and I'm not lending myself out for servitude."

"Too used to being a prince?" Cowan crossed his arms. Halt turned to look at him darkly.

"No. But I'll not let my life go idly by simply because I'm too lazy to try anything worth trying." He turned back to his horse. "I don't mind work. I don't mind learning. I _do_ mind being less than myself – and I like independence." He said it all so concisely, so sure of himself that for a while, Cowan had nothing to say.

"I'm sure we'll find something for you, Halt." His tone had morphed into something Halt didn't quite understand. "Don't you worry." They shared a look that neither of them could decipher, until Cowan smiled nodded toward the animal at Halt's side. "I'll give you a leg-up." Once Halt was mounted, Cowan gave the horse a pat on the shoulder. "There're some good clearings a ways north, nice and quiet this time of year." He stepped back and Halt rode off. Cowan watched him go.

_I mind being less than myself_. The words stuck with him for some reason. They clicked like a key into a thought pattern that had been building in Cowan's mind for some time, and while a small part of the Ranger grew excited over the thought, another part of him shrunk in apprehension. This new idea of his was going to bring him nothing but trouble.

* * *

Weeks passed. Beatrice, Cowan, and Halt fell into a routine in their joint suites at the castle. Daily, Halt would go through various physical exercises with Beatrice to strengthen his shoulder and prepare it to return to normal use. He would help Cowan with daily chores such as horse care and preparing food, and while Cowan and Beatrice were away on business at the castle, he would immerse himself in the local lifestyle and read up on Araluen. If he was to live there, he ought to know about its culture. The entire routine grew comfortable and second-nature for the three of them. However, as the days until Halt was declared fully healed went down to the single digits, Cowan felt a small itch of anticipation grow inside him with increasing demand.

One night, after Halt practically collapsed into bed after a long day out riding, Cowan and Beatrice sat together talking in the main living area of their quarters. Beatrice was sipping at a mug of tea. Cowan had offered her coffee, but try as he might, he'd never been able to get her to like the stuff.

"Asleep?" She asked.

"Out cold, more like," Cowan lowered himself into a seat. "Konked out like someone pommeled him."

Beatrice laughed. "I can't blame him – he's been through a lot."

"He didn't complain."

"He doesn't seem like the type who would."

"Hmm." A steaming cup of coffee waited for him where Beatrice had left it on the table, but Cowan didn't even look at it. His eyebrows were drawn together in an intense look. Beatrice noticed, but didn't say anything for a long time.

"It _must_ be important," She broke the silence eventually, still sipping calmly at her tea, "if you've let your coffee go cold over it."

The mention of coffee seemed to snap Cowan out of his trance, and the ranger made a face when he realized that it had, in fact, gone cold. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"So, what is it?" Beatrice coaxed him, not bothering to look up.

Cowan drummed his fingers on the armchair. "It's about Halt."

"What about him?"

He glanced at her nervously. "You're not going to like it."

"Aren't I?"

"Neither is Gerald." Cowan watched her as if she were an active hornet's nest. Mustering his courage, he added, "…or Randalf."

That _did_ get her attention. Her eyes shot up to him, and there was no mistaking the warning in that look. "Cowan Fitzpatrick Shirley, so help me," He winced at the use of his full name – it was a name that only a handful of people were privy to – "if you so much as _think _about doing what I think you're thinking about doing,"

"Too late," he muttered,

"Do you even _know_ what it is you're asking?" Her voice was rising in volume, tea forgotten.

"Bea, look, it's just a thought-"

"Not when it's _you_ who's thinking it, Cowan! You can't do this!"

"Bea, please, quiet down, you'll wake-"

"_Don't you dare_ call me that, _idiot._" She did, however, comply by lowering her voice. "Cowan, this is not about just _him_ anymore, this is about your job, your credibility, your _life_, even – what will you do when they expel you from the Corps.?"

"Who says they will?"

"You're a tough man to control, Cowan," Beatrice told him frankly, "And you've crossed more than a few lines over the past twenty years. This will only push them that much farther – and _Halt,_ of all people!"

"What about him?"

"Why'd you choose _him_?"

"You have to ask?"

"The boy's a foreigner!"

"_Defector!"_

"It doesn't matter!" Beatrice threw up her hands. "You _know_ they'll be suspicious."

"We'll prove them wrong."

"You and what army, Cowan? You _know_ that there's only one man who will vouch for you."

"Martin has enough influence to pull it off."

"_Had. _Martin is the only reason you're still in the Corps, but after all the times he's covered for you, even _he's _losing his place in the ranks."

Cowan bit his lip and looked away. He knew it was true, he knew it was his fault, but that little part of him that always got him in trouble just _didn't care._

"For the love of sanity, Cowan," He was slightly surprised to hear desperation in Beatrice's voice, "_Please _don't do this. I'm not going to let you throw your career away."

"You don't think he can do it?"

"Of course I think he can, but _they won't_, and they're the only ones who matter!"

"We'll convince them, then."

"No," Beatrice moaned and rubbed her face, trying to restrain herself from punching him, "That's just it, you _won't_ convince them, Cowan, you _can't_. Nothing you can say will ever convince them to let you make a washed-up, defecting Hibernian ex-prince-in-hiding your _apprentice_."

The air froze, and they glared at each other.

"Well, then," Cowan said eventually, his jaw set, "I'll just have to think of something that I _can't_ say."

* * *

For some reason, breakfast the next morning seemed unusually tense. Beatrice wasn't speaking to anyone, and she wouldn't even look at Cowan. She'd left without asking Halt how he was feeling, which had never happened before. Cowan watched her with half guilt, half challenge written in his eyes, but Halt, for all the unspoken tension in the room, seemed incredibly calm as he ate his oatmeal.

"That woman," Cowan began to rant after she left. He paced around the table at which Halt was eating. "Can't she just see my side of it all, just _once?_" He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Of course not, she's _Beatrice_, for heaven's sake. But why not just _now?_ Of all things…" Although he'd been speaking as if to Halt, he did a double take when he caught the young man staring at him and frowned. "What are you looking at?"

Halt shook his head and looked down at his cereal. Cowan resumed pacing.

"Not like this is _important_ or anything. But what am I saying? _Of course _it's important, bloody well life and death, and there she is, rubbing me the wrong way for what? Her half-baked stubbornness?" Cowan growled, but it dissolved into a frustrated sigh. "But she's probably right, of course. Damn lass is always right." He sunk into a chair across from Halt and felt an immediate need to change the subject. After taking a moment to cool down, he nodded at Halt's arm.

"How's your shoulder holding up, lad?"

Halt shrugged, obviously not in pain. "Feels fine. Wouldn't know any different if Beatrice wasn't around to remind me it's still brittle." Cowan nodded, as if it was what he'd expected.

"Aye, should be all mended soon." He didn't sound entirely pleased with the fact. "You'll be out of her care, then." His eyes got a far-off look for a moment, but he recovered and peered at Halt. "Lad, that is, er, Halt… I've been thinking. About what you said a while back, about not knowing what to do after you're healed up and all… I've had an idea about it, and I like to put it to you – to hell with whatever Bea says about it." When Halt merely looked at him, Cowan drew breath to speak, but the boy unexpectedly cut in.

"You want to make me your apprentice."

Cowan froze and gaped. Halt shrugged.

"You two weren't exactly _quiet_, you know." He picked at his oatmeal. A silence hung between the two while Halt ate and Cowan's eyebrows twitched as if to process this new revelation.

"I… see." He said after a while. "And, eh… What do you think?"

"Beatrice seemed to think it was a suicide cause."

Cowan looked annoyed. "Yes, I very well know what _she_ thinks, that's not what I asked – I asked what _you_ think, Halt." He leaned across the table to look the boy in the eye.

Halt heaved a huge breath and set down his spoon. After thinking, he began to shake his head. "Cowan, I… I'm indebted to you, everything you've done to help me, and honestly," Halt's typical composure faltered, and Cowan glimpsed the honesty and vulnerability beneath. "I don't know how I would have made it without you, either of you, and honestly…" He paused before saying sincerely, "I think being your apprentice would be a great honor. But I'm afraid that… Beatrice may be right. No one would want a foreigner in their ranks. I'm not even a citizen here. I could never be a ranger."

"No, I think you're wrong," Cowan replied quickly. "I think you could be a ranger, and a darned good one, at that." Halt looked at the man surprised but dubious, and Cowan continued. "The skills you've been trained in since birth would come in handy in the Corps, for one. But aside from and vastly more important, Halt, you've got _spirit._You've got resolve, determination, and pure gut that I haven't seen in any other man."

Halt regarded him for a long moment before asking, "How'd you see it at all, then?"

Cowan smiled. "Because I've glimpsed it – only glimpsed it – before, in someone I knew."

"Who's that?"

"Me."

Halt merely watched the older man. Cowan drew himself up and began to explain.

"You may not be able to tell it now, Halt, but I wasn't so unlike you, once. I was raised in Hibernia."

"Really?" Halt looked genuinely surprised.

"Aye. My mother was from a small village just South of Clonmel, in fact. My father was an Araluan tradesman. He'd gone to serve a long apprenticeship in Hibernia after his master's shop grew too small for him. I lived my childhood there." When Halt made no move to interrupt him, Cowan continued: "When I was just nearing my growing years, my father decided that it would be best for his business and our family to move back to Araluen. My mother agreed, so we packed up what we had and boarded a ship." Cowan sighed sadly. "We were taken by a storm halfway across the west sea. Treacherous waters. My father… In an effort to help the crew save the sails, was tossed over. We never found him."

Both grew quiet, and Halt murmured his condolences. Cowan shrugged them away. The callous of years made the pain lessen. "We landed just north of the northern border, in Picta. My mother, bless her stubborn Hibernian blood, somehow got herself and I through to Araluen alive. It wasn't enough, though. We'd only been there a month or so, staying at an inn in the northern feifs when she fell ill. Within two months on Araluen soil, I was an orphan foreigner, no where to go."

Halt was intensely sympathetic and interested. "What happened?"

Cowan smiled. "I fought. I wasn't about to become nothing for sake of my circumstances. I hadn't the slightest idea what I was doing, but I made my way here in Araluen. I worked in carpenter shops- my father's trade – for a while, in different towns. Then I enlisted into the Redmont barracks at sixteen. Stayed there training for a few years – rubbish with a sword, I can tell you – and that's where the local ranger found me." He laughed at the memory. "I'd been in a fight. The other boys would pick on me for my accent, you see. It was still strong, then. I hated them for it. Got more than one black eye for my trouble. At the time, I hadn't a clue what the ranger saw in my to make me his apprentice, but now I know, Halt, because now I've seen it in you."

Halt looked like he was beginning to follow, but not sure whether he should like it or not.

"It's _spirit." _Cowan explained. "It takes that kind of spirit to really make it in the Corps., Halt. I had it to survive when I got here, and you've got it too, far more than I had. I may have what it takes to be a good ranger, Halt," Cowan said frankly, then more quietly, "But you'd be ten times the ranger I've ever been, Halt. I know it. I'd stake my life on it."

Hald didn't know what to say. He felt simultaneously flattered and threatened at the same time, as if he'd just come to an ultimatum.

"Even if all the others disagree? Even if they refuse, are you willing to try for it? For the sake of 'spirit'?" Halt asked. Cowan leaned forward with a steely look in his eye.

"Are you willing to _not_ try?"

The two men, young and old, stared at each other. The spirit of which Cowan had referred reared its head inside Halt and steeled his gut for whatever gamble he was about to make.

_I will not stand idly by_. Well, Halt thought, this was anything but idle. And might just be his only chance.

"No," he said, his tone and his eyes telling Cowan everything he needed to know. The ranger smiled, wide and genuine, but his eyes were wild.

"I thought not."


End file.
